LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

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UNITED STATES OF AM 



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bAVREL-CRPWNED^ 
LETTERS 



COWPER- 



ilaurekCrofconeD ilettersu 

■0 

The Best Letters of Lord Chesterfield. 

The Best Letters of Madame de Sevigne. 

The Best Letters of Lady Mary Wortley 
Montagu. 

The Best Letters of Horace Walpole. 

The Best Letters of Charles Lamb. 

The Best Letters of Percy Bysshe Shelley. 

The Best Letters of William Cowper. 



OTHER VOLUMES IN PREPARATION. 



UNIFORM IN STYLE. PRICE, $1.00 PER VOLUME. 



THE BEST LETTERS 



OF 



WILLIAM COWPER 



IStutetJ fcntfj an Entrotmctum 
By ANNA B. McMAHAN 




HICAGO 



/ 



A. C. McCLURG AND COMPANY 
i393 



Copyright 
By A. C. McClurg and Co. 

A.D. 1892 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

INTRODUCTION 7 

LETTER 

I. Descriptive of his Situation at Huntingdon ... 19 

II. On his Illness and Recovery 21 

III. Concerning a Book of Meditations 23 

IV. First Acquaintance with the Unwin Family ... 24 
V. More about the Unwins . . . . 26 

VI. On becoming a Member of the Unwin Family ... 29 

VII. Manner of Life with the Unwins 30 - 

VIII. Motives for introducing Unwin to his Grand Kinsfolk 33 

IX. Death of the Rev. Morley Unwin 35- 

X. Concerning Gray and his Works 36 

XI. Concerning Unrequited Obligations t,7 

XII. A Budget of Home News 38 

XIII. On Mr. Newton's Removal from Olney 40 

XIV. A Night Adventure. — Enclosing New Poem ... 43 
XV. Explanation of Delay. — Pope's Letters 46 

XVI. Concerning his own State of Mind 48- 

XVII. Concerning his First Volume of Poems 51- 

XVIII. Concerning the Trials of publishing Poetry . ... 52- 

XIX. His own State of Mind compared with Mr. Newton's 58- 

XX. Congratulations on the Birth of a Son 61 

XXI. Emotions at the Sight of the Sea 64- 

XXII. Dislike of Imitation 66- 

XXIII. An Imaginary Conversation 68 

XXIV. England and America 71 

XXV. Dr. Johnson's " Lives of the Poets " 72 

XXVI. Concerning Lady Austen 76 ■ 



IV 



CONTENTS. 



LETTER 

XXVII. 

XXVIII. 

XXIX. 

XXX. 

XXXI. 

XXXII. 

XXXIII. 

XXXIV. 

XXXV. 

XXXVI. 

XXXVII. 

XXXVIII. 

XXXIX. 

XL. 

XLI. 

XLII. 

XLIII. 

XLIV. 

XLV. 

XLVI. 

XLVII. 

XLVIII. 

XLIX. 

L. 

LI. 

LII. 

L1II. 

LIV. 

LV. 

LVI. 

LVII. 

LVIII. 

LIX. 



Concerning the Preface to his " Poems." — Lady 

Austen 79. 

Lady Austen. — Sunday Routs 83 

The Sweetness of Praise from Friends .... 86 
Enclosing a Letter from Benjamin Franklin . . 89 

Ambition for an Olney Reputation 93 

Olney Charities. — John Gilpin 95 

A Group of Olney Politicians. — England and 

America 98 

Restoration of Friendship between Kings of Eng- 
land and France 101 

Reflections on the Peace 103- 

Doubts concerning the Future Prospects of 

America 106 

American Loyalists. — Prospects of the United 

States 108 

Olney News. — Anticipations of Balloon-travelling 112 

First Introduction to the Throckmortons . . . 116 

A Visit from a Candidate 119 

Beattie. — Blair. — The Origin of Language . . 122 

Enclosing the Manuscript of " The Task" . . 126 

Poem on School Education 128 

Concerning a Motto for " Tirocinium " .... 131 

On the Death of Mrs. Hill 132 

Defending the Title of "The Task" and of its 

Separate Books 132 

John Gilpin. — Vanity of Popular Applause . . 137 

Rewards of Fame 139 

Providential Connection with Mr. Newton . . 142 

Description of his Summer-house 145 

Favorable Reception of his Volume by the Public 146 

Self-Abasement. — " The Task" not advertised 150 
Reasons for publishing " The Letter to Joseph 

Hill" 155 

Revival of an Old Friendship 157 

Concerning Money and Friendship 160- 

Translation of Homer no longer secret .... 164 
Happiness in renewing an Old Friendship . . . 165 
Reasons for Translating Homer. — Hope of Bet- 
ter Days i/° 

Personal Efforts in behalf of Homer Subscriptions 1 74 



CONTENTS. 



LETTER PAGE 

LX. Review of his Past Life 177 

LXI. Arrangements for his Cousin's Coming to Olney. 

— Homer. — The Critics 187 

LXI I. Lodging Hunting ; Part of the Vicarage secured 190 

LXIII. Description of the Vicarage 197 

LX1V. Joy in Lady Hesketh's Letters. — Cowpership . 201 

LXV. Intended Removal to Weston 203 

LXVI. Fuseli. — Homer. — Dennis ....... 207 

LXVII. Unhealthfulness of Olney. — State of his Mind 210 

LXVIII. Concerning Reproof from Mr. Newton . . . 213 

LXIX. Removal from Olney to Weston 216 

LXX. Comforts of the New Abode 219 

LXXI. Death of Rev. William Unwin 221 

LXXII. Illness. — Dreams. — First Acquaintance with 

Mr. Rose 223 

LXXIII. Thanks for a Copy of Burns 226 

LXXIV. Arrival of a New Vicar at Olney 227 

LXXV. Song on the Slave-Trade. — Hannah More . . 229 

LXXVI. On the Loss of his Library 230 

LXXV II. Thanks for Prints of Crazy Kate and the Lace- 
maker 231 

LXXVIII. Anticipating a Visit. — Thurlow. — Beau and 

the Water-Lily 233 

LXXIX. Five Hundred Celebrated Authors 236 

* LXXX. Completion of the Iliad, and Beginning of the 

Odyssey 238 

LXXXI. Occupations previous to becoming Poet . . . 239 

LXXXII. Changes, especially at the Place of his Birth . 242 

LXXXIII. Mrs. Unwin's Accident. — The King's Illness 246 

LXXXIV. Absorption in Homer 248 

LXXXV. Dissatisfaction with his own Writing. — Uncon- 
scious Plagiarism 249 

LXXXVI. Stanzas on the Queen's Visit to London pre- 
sented to Her Majesty 251 

LXXXVII. On the Receipt of a Hamper (in the Manner of 

Homer) 252 

LXXXVIH. Summary of his Present Situation 254 

LXXXIX. First Appearance of the French Revolution . 256 

XC. Forebodings of the Month of January . . . . 257 

XCI. On receiving a Present of his Mother's Picture . 259 

XCII. Acknowledging Receipt of his Mother's Picture 262 



VI 



CONTENTS. 



LETTER 

xcin. 

xciv. 

xcv. 

xcvi. 

XCVII. 
XCVIII. 

XCIX. 

c. 

CI. 

en. 

cm. 
civ. 

cv. 

cvi. 

cvn. 

cvm. 

cix. 

ex. 

CXI. 



PAGE 

Concerning Two Poems 265 

Change of Style in Homer Translation .... 267 

Forbidding any Application for the Laureateship . 269 

Comments on the French Revolution 270 

On sending Homer Translation to the Publisher . 271 
Epigram on 111 Success of his Subscription at 

Oxford 273 

Success of his Homer. — Correspondence with Thur- 

lovv concerning it 274 

Engagement to edit Milton 278 

Mrs. Unwin stricken with Paralysis 279 

Lines for an Album. — Departure of the Throck- 

mortons from Weston 280 

Beginning of Friendship with William Hayley . . 282 

Sudden Friendships. — Invitation to Weston . . 284 

Mrs. Unwin's Second Paralytic Stroke .... 286 

Eventfulness of the Last Two Months 287 

Publisher's Schemes. — Politics 290 

Annotations of Homer 293 

Intrusive Strangers. — Literary Co-operation . . 295 

Principles of Translation 297 

Stanzas to Mrs. Unwin 300 



INTRODUCTION. 



WILLIAM COWPER, as a poet, is far less popu- 
lar than he was two generations ago. When 
he died, in the first year of the present century, the 
world was inclined to exclaim, with Byron, — 

" What •' must deserted Poesy still weep 
Where her last hopes with pious Cowper sleep ? " 

Biographers arose in numbers ; but as each wrote to 
counteract what he considered the dangerous heresies of 
the others, little progress was made towards gaining a 
complete picture of the man. All of them dealt with the 
same facts ; namely, that as a boy Cowper was of a 
delicate physical constitution and highly sensitive tem- 
perament, ill-fitted for the life of the public school to 
which he was sent when six years old, on the death of 
his mother; that after leaving school some fifteen years 
drifted away, ostensibly in the study and practice of the 
law, but really in idleness and frivolity ; that when a rela- 
tive procured him a government appointment which re- 
quired a preliminary appearance at the bar of the House 
of Lords, his strangely nervous nature succumbed at the 
prospect of such an ordeal, his reason gave way, and it 
became necessary to commit him wholly to medicaL care 
and supervision ; that after eighteen months in a private 
insane asylum his mind had in some degree recovered 



8 INTRODUCTION. 

its balance, and he came forth a changed man, resolved 
to renounce forever the old London life, and to devote 
himself to religious pursuits ; that the remainder of his 
days were passed in almost total seclusion from the 
world ; that his old malady, taking the form of suicidal 
mania, returned at intervals and for longer or shorter 
periods throughout his life ; that until he was fifty years 
old he had never thought of writing for publication, but 
that during the ten years that followed he devoted him- 
self to poetical production with such success that he be- 
came the most popular poet of his time. 

But the interpretations and explanations of these 
facts were as various as the characters of the men by 
whom they were offered. First came Hayley, Cowper's 
intimate friend during his last ten years, who was 
bent on making a Life which should be consistent, and 
because melancholy when he knew it, therefore melan- 
choly throughout ; then Grimshawe, who, regarding Hay- 
ley's picture as not sufficiently pious, rewrote the tale 
with the addition of much cant and twaddle, in order to 
meet "the demands and expectations of the religious 
public ; " then Southey, more competent than either, 
who wrote with a fulness of detail amounting to pro- 
lixity, but still, like the others, failed to disclose any con- 
nection between the poet's life and the poet's work. 
Whichever of these early tales we read, the main 
impression left with us is that of a man of weak yet 
tenacious character, unsteady mind, and melancholy 
temperament: a pensive being, born to be a recluse; a 
half-feminine figure, without acquaintance with men or 
experience of life ; a hypochondriac, sick in body and 
sick in soul, who yet wrote poems full of sweetness and 
sanity, — poems which all the world loved to read, which 
brought him praise and friends and gold, a pension from 
government, and numbers of admiring disciples eager 
to sit at his feet. 



IN TROD UC TION. 9 

A generation later, and we encounter a new set of 
critics and a new phase of criticism. Ideals of poetry 
have changed ; readers of the new time find " The Task " 
a task indeed. Some of them are even so bold as to 
deny that it is a great poem, and to wonder at the taste 
of their good fathers and mothers. Then upon closer 
observation it began to be noted that even if not great 
absolutely and considered by himself, Cowper was yet 
a very marked figure relatively, as judged by his place 
in the history of poetry. It began to be suspected that 
Cowper, so far from taking with him to his grave the 
" last hopes " of poetry, was indeed but heralding its 
newest and brightest hopes. Recognizing that a new 
school of poetry had arisen in England, the greatest that 
had been known there since the days of Elizabeth, it 
was proclaimed that to Cowper belonged the distinction 
of being the first to break through the artificial boun- 
daries that had been raised about the art, and to restore 
it to its natural allegiance to nature and freedom. It 
became a favorite theme of the critics to exalt Cowper 
by depreciating Pope ; to show what damage had been 
wrought by Pope until repaired by Cowper. Sainte- 
Beuve likened Cowper to Rousseau in the service each 
had rendered in bringing about the reaction against 
eighteenth -century codes of taste and morality ; Matthew 
Arnold called him " the precursor of Wordsworth." 
Such is still the favorite point of view. Scarcely any 
account of William Cowper as poet omits to give some 
view of the state of English taste and English verse in 
the latter half of the eighteenth century, and to show 
the important place occupied by him in the evolution of 
modern poetry. Whatever value such inquiries may 
have for the student of poetry, whatever satisfaction he 
may find in contemplating a " Period," and in being told 
that it "began with Cowper's Task, culminated under 
Wordsworth, and ended with Shelley," it is happily en- 



IO INTRODUCTION. 

tirely uncalled for as an introduction to Cowper's Let- 
ters. Here we have to deal with a man who seemingly 
lived entirely apart from the currents of thought of his 
time, who was almost wholly undisturbed by the passing 
questions and answers of the day. In this respect he 
is a great contrast to most of the famous letter-writers 
The letters of Horace Walpole are so full of political 
allusions, so crammed with references to public men and 
events, that no one can read them understanding! y 
without some knowledge of the history of the times ; 
those of Madame de Se'vigne' and Lady Montagu de- 
rive a large part of their interest from the fact that 
these ladies had seen much of life and the world, and 
that they had a wealth of material from which to draw 
in their own gay and eventful careers. But Cowper was 
always notably deficient in any enthusiasm for public 
transactions, was, indeed, of a temper so incurious that 
even while yet a London youth, he did not think the 
most splendid spectacle the metropolis could afford, 
and which it did afford but once in his life, — the coro- 
nation of a king, — worth the little trouble it would have 
cost him to witness it. 

Therefore Cowper's Letters, with a few exceptions, 
furnish but a barren field if one seeks for reports or 
even opinions of current events. His reflections on the 
American war are indeed interesting, since illustrations 
of the foolishness of prophesying are always entertain- 
ing ; but his predictions that "the loss of America will 
be the ruin of England" (Letter XXIV.), and that "the 
Americans will not be equal to the task of establishing 
an empire," because forsooth "she has no great men " 
(Letter XXXVI I.), can hardly be said to conduce to 
Cowper's reputation as a judge of character or affairs. 

A leading English critic, 1 speaking of Cowper's poe- 
try, has said : " We read him not for his passion or for 
> T. H. Ward in " English Poets." 



INTRODUCTION. 1 1 

his ideas, but for his love of Nature and his faithful ren- 
dering of her beauty ; for his truth of portraiture, for 
his humor, for his pathos; for the refined honesty of 
his style, for the melancholy interest of his life, and for 
the simplicity and loveliness of his character." Much 
the same may be said of his letters. Although not writ- 
ten for publication (for he begged his correspondents to 
burn them, and would have been dismayed at the thought 
of these confidences of friendship coming to the eye 
of the world), yet they are as elegant and classic as the 
most finished compositions. Every one bears the im- 
press of truth ; he never exaggerates for the sake of 
effect. Both his humor and his pathos are sponta- 
neous, and impart a glow to a multitude of trifles in 
themselves colorless. So frankly and artlessly sell- 
revealing are they, that we come very close indeed to 
an uneventful but most interesting life, to a character 
very unusual truly, but far less out of harmony with his 
writings than the formal biographies would lead us to 
suppose. When we read the letters, we lose sight of the 
conventional Cowper, — a poor creature, composite of 
fanatic, madman, and recluse, melancholy from his 
birth, and, throughout his life, feeble of purpose, capri- 
cious, and obstinate, — but we gain instead a figure much 
more consistent with the sweetness and vitality of Cow- 
per's poetry. 

With one exception, there is scarcely an episode in his 
career ot which we have not some account in the letters, 
given by the man himself in his confidences to one or 
another of his friends. This exception is his youthful 
love for his cousin Theodora Cowper. Certain poems, 
however, partly supply the deficiency. Many love verses 
he wrote to her in their happy days ; and when all inter- 
course was at an end between them, and the lady in def- 
erence to the paternal command neither saw nor heard 
from her lover more, she carefully preserved these pre- 



1 2 INTR OD UC TION. 

cious tokens of his devotion She survived him twenty- 
four years; but when she too had passed away, some 
relatives published them in a small volume. They are 
now to be found in all complete editions of the poems ; 
and the pathetic story may be partly read between the 
lines of the " Delia " verses, in the poems called " Of 
Himself" and "On the Death of Sir Wm Russell," 
wherein occurs the passage so well known to all readers 
of poetry : — 

'• Still, still I mourn, with each returning day, 
Him snatched by fate in early youth away, 
And her, through tedious years of doubt and pain, 
Fixed in her choice, and faithful, but in vain ! " 

Cowper was fond of reminiscences in his letters ; his 
memories extend back to a bright but brief period in 
early childhood when he had still a mother. She died 
when he was six years old (1737) ; but the blank that was 
left in his life, and the filial tenderness with which he 
cherished her memory are shown when he writes, at the 
age of fifty, that she has never been out of his thoughts 
for a week altogether during that long half-century. 
The child seems to have lived at home very little after- 
ward ; and his next four years were very miserable, ow- 
ing to the persecutions he underwent at the public 
school, to which he was sent immediately, notwithstand- 
ing his tender years. Possibly some of the experiences 
of that time did permanent injury to a constitution nat- 
urally delicate and a disposition naturally timid, and in- 
deed may have had not a little to do with that morbid 
self-consciousness which afterward developed in such 
painful forms. 

But with the termination of these unhappy experi- 
ences, the twenty-two years that followed seem to have 
been more than commonly free from the sorrows and 
anxieties that not even youth can escape He went to 



ixtr on re TION. 1 3 

: : ..:;'. ;. : Wes:~:zs:er. ;.: pre;:sely :.:e r/.rs: jrill:;.;-.: 
period of its history ; he excelled at cricket and football, 
was liked by everybody, and formed friendships that 
lasted as long as he lived. Afterward, apprenti: 
an attorney, he had for a fellow clerk and jovial com- 
panion in the office, Edward Thurlow. a brilliant youth, 
afterward Lord Chancellor ; he spent much time with 
Theodora and her two sisters at the house of their father 
and his uncle. Ashley Cowper, a man influential in high 
places: he became a lawyer on his own account, and 
though without clients, seems not to have grieved greatly 
thereat. He belonged to a -Nonsense Club:' he 
joined with some lively fellows of the old Westminster 
set in writing chatty articles for a literary periodical :: 
theirs, called " The Connoisseur: " he went to Brighton, 
to the play, was careless of his money. It is hard :: 
find any signs of melancholy, or any premonitions which 
serve as an explanation of what followed. Nevertheless, 
the first of those attacks of madness which beset him 
through life was close at hand. Mental disease was Ut- 
ile understood in thosellays. and at this distance of : 
it is extremely difficult to comprehend the situation. 
Had there been a Maudsley or a Hammond to consult 
in the case, the first inquiry would probably have b e :- n 
directed towards the family history, and we should 
know whether the ancestral records included anv earlier 
instances of mental trouble or even eccentric:: . As it 
is, plenty of theories have been ottered, but none show 
a cause in any degree proportioned to the e£r:: ne 
>nly is plain, that the malady, whatever its origin, 
finally assumed the form of religious mania. He be- 
lieved that he was an outcast from God. and that it was 
the divine will that he should put an end to his own ex- 
istence. When he failed to accomplish this purpose 
(the garter breaking with which he tried to hang him- 
he considered that his failure was fatal to h 



14 JNTK OD UC TJON. 

conciliation, and that henceforth he was everlastingly 
damned Although this delusion yielded in a few 
months to judicious medical treatment, yet it was the 
ever-recurring torment of his after life, the special and 
horrible hallucination that took possession of him when- 
ever, for any cause, his reason succumbed and his na- 
turally sweet nature became " jangled, out of tune, and 
harsh." 

Such intense and bitter suffering could not well pass 
without leaving a permanent shadow; but the epithets 
"gloomy," "pious," "melancholy," "mad," habitually 
prefixed to Cowper's name, emphasize out of all due 
proportion the sad side of the situation. That he was 
much changed from his former merry and thoughtless 
self is true ; but the testimony of familiar letters to pri- 
vate friends is not to be gainsaid. Except those writ- 
ten when the " fever of the brain " was upon him. they 
indicate for the most part a mind at peace with itself 
and a heart full of tenderness for others. As a rule, 
they reveal unmistakably a gentle, lovable nature, a cheer- 
ful philosophy, and a sound good sense. They sparkle 
with playfulness, they have a tone of habitual thankful- 
ness. It is the hard fate of the insane to belie them- 
selves, to wear a terrible disguise over their natural 
features ; and Cowper was no exception to the rule. 
The loving grateful heart, the clear reason, the hope- 
ful piety, all yielded to the assaults of the insidious 
fever ; and he became under its domineering influence 
morose, fanciful, desponding, mistrustful alike of God 
and man. 

The story of the years that follow is told by himself in 
the letters here selected, and told with so much of detail 
that it is hardly necessary to summarize it here. Some 
little introduction to his correspondents, however, may 
be of service to the reader. Letters derive their tone 
quite as much from the person addressed as from the 



INTRODUCTION. 15 

person writing, and the individuality of the recipient is 
an important factor in any epistolary composition. 

Lady Hesketh, whose name appears oftenest, was one 
of the three girl cousins, daughters of Ashley Cowper, at 
whose house Cowper had spent so much time in his 
London days to the neglect of the law, but to his own 
great enjoyment. As the sister of Theodora, as well as 
for her own endearing qualities, there is greater tender 
ness and intimacy in Cowper's manner to her than to 
any other. She was already married to Sir Thomas 
Hesketh before the beginning of their correspondence ; 
afterward it was interrupted for many years, during 
which she had been absent from England; had become 
a widow, and been much occupied by mournful duties. 
It is plain, however, that many years of separation and 
broken intercourse were without power to lessen the ties 
that bound these kinsfolk together in youth. She is 
described as a woman of brilliant beauty, high spirits, 
and warm heart. 

The letters to Joseph Hill extend over a very long 
series of years. Hill was afriend of Westminster days, 
a man of solid, practical sense, looking after Cowper's 
business affairs in London all his life, but also a man of 
bright wit, one of the seven members of the Nonsense 
Club He seems to have well deserved the praise of 
Cowper's lines in the " Epistle," — 

" An honest man close-buttoned to the chin, 
Broadcloth without, and a warm heart within " 

Rev. William Cawthorne Unwin was the first of the 
Unwin family with whom Cowper made acquaintance, 
as described in Letters IV. and V. In the year follow- 
ing the death of the elder Unwin, and soon after the 
removal of the family to Olney, the young clergyman 
took charge of a parish at Stock in Essex; and from 
that time until his death, twenty years later, a constant 



1 6 INTRODUCTION. 

correspondence was maintained. Cowper's own feeling 
is indicated in a letter where he says : " I have had more 
comfort, far more comfort, in the connections that I have 
formed within the last twenty years than in the more 
numerous ones that I had before. Memorandum: The 
latter are almost all Unwins or Unwinisms." Alexan- 
der Knox, speaking of their correspondence,, says : " I 
suppose there are not in the world letters equal in merit, 
as compositions, to those of Cowper to Unwin." 

Rev. John Newton was a curate, for the sake of whose 
spiritual guidance the Unwin family, of which Cowper 
had now become a member, took up their residence at 
Olney. Some of the biographers are rather severe upon 
this pious and well-meaning preacher, as being the di- 
rect agent in bringing on Cowper's second and longest 
spell of insanity (1773-1782). Benham, whose "Life" 
prefixed to the Globe edition of the Poems is in many 
ways so admirable, says: " Calvinistic doctrine and reli- 
gious excitement threw an already trembling mind off 
its balance, and aggravated a malady which but for them 
might probably have been cured." But is not this rather 
a sweeping statement when there was besides such 
an unfortunate combination of physical conditions exist- 
ing? Cowper's letters written during the Olney period 
of his life show that there could hardly have been a more 
unfavorable residence for a nervous invalid. The house 
itself was like a prison ; its principal sitting-room was 
over a cellar often filled with water. The surrounding 
country was low. damp, and miasmatic. During several 
months of the year it was impossible to go out of doors. 
There was no pleasant, neighborly society, except dur- 
ing the brief period that Lady Austen lived there. 
Putrid fevers abounded among the poorer classes of the 
inhabitants. All the influences, external and internal, 
were enervating and depressing, and of a tendency to 
feed his disease. Mr. Newton was six years Cowper's 



INTRO D UC riON. 1 7 

senior, and in some ways his companionship was a help- 
ful one ; whether or not it was wholly desirable, the 
younger man always regarded it as an occasion for grat- 
itude, and expressed himself to the elder with affection 
tempered with a certain degree of awe and reverence. 

It was at the close of this second illness that Cowper 
began to cultivate his poetical powers He had indeed 
written a few occasional verses earlier, but now he was 
encouraged to more sustained efforts by the affectionate 
solicitude of friends. It was Mrs. Unwin who proposed 
the undertaking as well as the first themes His own 
feelings while writing and publishing his first volume 
are sufficiently described in the letters. Lady Austen 
was the source of his inspiration for his second volume 
and his longest poem, " The Task." It is characteristic 
of Cowper that he always needed some spur from with- 
out ; except in his translation of Homer, he seems never 
to have determined his own work for himself ; but he 
pursued it with great energy and faithfulness when once 
undertaken. There is perhaps no more touching cir- 
cumstance in his life than the persistency with which he 
drudged away with his pen when he felt the creative im- 
pulse dying out in his last sad, weak days, hoping for 
the restoring influence that poetry-writing had proved 
to him formerly. He courted the Muse, not in search 
of fame or money, but in search of health. 

This is not the place to add anything to that favorite 
subject of gossip, the relations of Cowper to Mrs. Unwin 
and to Lady Austen. Whether he ever wished to 
marry either or neither, whether there was or was not 
any jealousy between the two women, whether either 
ever regarded him with any other feeling than that of a 
protecting and helpful friendship, it is not profitable to 
inquire nor important to know The general course of 
his life shows that he had a great capacity for attracting 



1 8 INTRODUCTION-. 

friends, both men and women Even after his best days 
were over, a new circle, mostly young men, gathered about 
him eager to serve him, although often at great personal 
sacrifice to themselves. " Dear Mr. Cowper " was the 
way they habitually spoke of him. The cloud which 
enveloped him and which sometimes broke with such 
fury over him was owing not to fault but to misfortune ; 
the undeserved and probably needless sufferings of the 
man awaken towards him a peculiarly pitiful regard, and 
lodge him tenderly in our hearts forever, even while we 
grant that many of his themes have lost their hold and 
much of his verse has ceased to charm. 

A. B. McM. 
August, 1892. 



THE BEST LETTERS 



OF 



WILLIAM COWPER 



DESCRIPTIVE OF HIS SITUATION AT HUNTINGDON. 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Cook's Court, Carey Street, 
London. 

Huntingdon, June 24, 1765. 

Dear Joe, — The only recompense I can make 
you for your kind attention to my affairs during my 
illness is to tell you that by the mercy of God I am re- 
stored to perfect health both of mind and body. This 
I believe will give you pleasure ; and I would gladly 
do anything from which you could receive it. 

I left St. Alban's * on the seventeenth, and arrived 
that day at Cambridge, spent some time there with 
my brother, and came hither on the twenty-second. 
I have a lodging that puts me continually in mind of 
our summer excursions ; we have had many worse, 
and except the size of it (which however is sufficient 

1 Where he had spent eighteen months in a private insane 
asylum, under the care of Dr. Cotton. 



20 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

for a single man), but few better. 1 I am not quite 
alone, having brought a servant with me from St. 
Alban's, who is the very mirror of fidelity and affec- 
tion for his master. And whereas the Turkish Spy says 
he kept no servant because he would not have an 
enemy in his house, I hired mine because I would 
have a friend. Men do not usually bestow these en- 
comiums on their lackeys, nor do they usually de- 
serve them ; but I have had experience of mine, 
both in sickness and in health, and never saw his 
fellow. 

The river Ouse (I forget how they spell it) is the 
most agreeable circumstance in this part of the 
world ; at this town it is, I believe, as wide as 
the Thames at Windsor ; nor does the silver Thames 
better deserve that epithet, nor has it more flowers 
upon its banks, these being attributes which in strict 
truth belong to neither. Fluellin would say they 
are as like as my fingers to my fingers, and there is 
salmon in both. It is a noble stream to bathe in. 
and I shall make that use of it three times a week, 
having introduced myself to it for the first time this 
morning. 

I beg you will remember me to all my friends, 
which is a task will cost you no great pains to ex- 
ecute ; particularly remember me to those of your 
own house, and believe me 

Your very affectionate. 

1 Huntingdon had been chosen as a place of residence be- 
cause of its nearness to Cambridge, where his brother. John 
Cowper, lived, and in order that frequent visits might be 
exchanged. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 21 

II. 

ON HIS ILLNESS AND RECOVERY 



Hvntingi ;v : r-65. 

My dear Lady Hesketh. — 5::::e :'.:e visit 
5 3 kind as to pay me in the Temple (the only 
time I you without pleasure), what he 2 I 

not suffered ! And since it has pleased God t; re- 
store me to the use of my reason, what have I not 
enjoyed ! You know by experience, how pleasant it 
is to feel the first approaches of health after a 
but, oh. the fever of the brain ! To feel the lench- 
ing of that fire is indeed a blessing which I think it 
impossible to re;: thout the most consummate 

gratitude. Terrible as this chastisement is. I ac- 
knowledge in it the hand of an infinite 1st ice 
is it at all more difficult for me to perceive in it the 
hand of an infinite mercy likewise : when I consider 
the effect it has had upon me, I am exceedingly thank- 
ful for it, and. without h esteem it the great- 
est blessing, next to life itself. I 
the divine bounty. I pray God that I may ever retain 
of it; and then I am sure e.tinue 
to be, as I air. present, really happy. 

rite thus to you that you may not think me a 
forlorn and wretched creature : which you might be 
apt to do. considering my very distant removal from 
friend I have in the world — a dreams 



22 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

which, before this event befell me, would undoubt- 
edly have made me so ; but my affliction has taught 
me a road to happiness which without it I should 
never have found ; and I know, and have experience 
of it every day, that the mercy of God, to him who 
believes himself the object of it, is more than suf- 
ficient to compensate for the loss of every other 
blessing. 

You may now inform all those whom you think 
really interested in my welfare, that they have no 
need to be apprehensive on the score of my happi- 
ness at present. And you yourself will believe that 
my happiness is no dream, because I have told you 
the foundation on which it is built. What I have 
written would appear like enthusiasm to many, for 
we are apt to give that name to every warm affection 
of the mind in others which we have not experienced 
in ourselves ; but to you, who have so much to be 
thankful for, and a temper inclined to gratitude, it 
will not appear so. 

I beg you will give my love to Sir Thomas, 1 and 
believe that I am obliged to you both for inquiring 
after me at St. Alban's. 

Yours ever. 

1 The husband of Lady Hesketh. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 23 

III. 

CONCERNING A BOOK OF MEDITATIONS. 

To Lady Hesketh. 

Huntingdon, August 17, 1765. 
You told me, my dear cousin, that I need not fear 
writing too often, and you perceive I take you at your 
word. At present, however, I shall do little more 
than thank you for the Meditations, which I admire 
exceedingly : the author of them manifestly loved 
the truth with an undissembled affection, had made 
a great progress in the knowledge of it, and experi- 
enced all the happiness that naturally results from 
that noblest of all attainments. There is one circum- 
stance, which he gives us frequent occasion to observe 
in him, which I believe will ever be found in the phi- 
losophy of every true Christian : I mean the eminent 
rank which he assigns to faith among the virtues, as 
the source and parent of them all. There is nothing 
more infallibly true than this ; and doubtless it is with 
a view to the purifying and sanctifying nature of a 
true faith, that our Saviour says, " He that believeth 
in me hath everlasting life," with many other expres- 
sions to the same purpose. Considered in this light, 
no wonder it has the power of salvation ascribed to 
it ! Considered in any other, we must suppose it to 
operate like an oriental talisman, if it obtains for us 
the least advantage ; which is an affront to him who 
insists upon our having it, and will on no other terms 



24 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

admit us to his favor. I mention this distinguishing 
article in his Reflections the rather, because it serves 
for a solid foundation to the distinction I made, in 
my last, between the specious professor and the true 
believer, between him whose faith is his Sunday-suit 
and him who never puts it off at all, — a distinction I 
am a little fearful sometimes of making, because it is 
a heavy stroke upon the practice of more than half 
the Christians in the world. 

My dear cousin, I told you I read the book with 
great pleasure, which may be accounted for from its 
own merit ; but perhaps it pleased me the more be- 
cause you had travelled the same road before me. 
You know there is such a pleasure as this, which 
would want great explanation to some folks, — being 
perhaps a mystery to those whose hearts are a mere 
muscle, and serve only for the purposes of an even 
circulation. 



IV. 

FIRST ACQUAINTANCE WITH THE UNWIN FAMILY. 

To Lady Hesketh. 

Huntingdon, September 14, 1765 
My dear Cousin, — The longer I live here, the 
better I like the place, and the people who belong to 
it. 1 am upon very good terms with no less than 
five families, besides two or three odd scrambling 
fellows like myself. The last acquaintance I made 



WILLIAM COW PER. 25 

here is with the race of the Unwins, consisting of 
father and mother, son and daughter, the most com- 
fortable social folks you ever knew. The son is 
about twenty-one years of age, one of the most un- 
reserved and amiable young men I ever conversed 
with. He is not yet arrived at that time of life when 
suspicion recommends itself to us in the form of 
wisdom, and sets everything but our own dear selves 
at an immeasurable distance from our esteem and 
confidence. Consequently he is known almost as 
soon as seen, and having nothing in his heart that 
makes it necessary for him to keep it barred and 
bolted, opens it to the perusal even of a stranger. 
The father is a clergyman, and the son is designed 
for orders. The design, however, is quite his own, 
proceeding merely from his being and having always 
been sincere in his belief and love of the Gospel. 
Another acquaintance I have lately made is with a 
Mr. Nicholson, a North Country divine, very poor, 
but very good and very happy. He reads prayers 
here twice a day, all the year round ; and travels on 
foot to serve two churches every Sunday through the 
year, his journey out and home again being sixteen 
miles. I supped with him last night. He gave me 
bread and cheese, and a black jug of ale of his own 
brewing, and doubtless brewed by his own hands. 

Another of my acquaintance is Mr. , a thin, tall, 

old man, and as good as he is thin. He drinks 
nothing but water, and eats no flesh; partly, I 
believe, from a religious scruple (for he is very re- 
ligious), and partly in the spirit of a valetudinarian. 
He is to be met with every morning of his life, at 



26 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

about six o'clock, at a fountain of very fine water, 
about a mile from the town, which is reckoned ex- 
tremely like the Bristol spring. Being both early 
risers, and the only early walkers in the place, we 
soon became acquainted. His great piety can be 
equalled by nothing but his great regularity, for he 
is the most perfect timepiece in the world. I have 

received a visit likewise from Mr. . He is very 

much a gentleman, well read, and sensible. I am 
persuaded, in short, that if I had the choice of all 
England where to fix my abode, I could not have 
chosen better for myself, and most likely I should 
not have chosen so well. 



V. 

MORE ABOUT THE UNWINS. 

To Lady Hesketh. 

Huntingdon, October 18, 1765. 
I wish you joy, my dear cousin, of being safely 
arrived in port from the storms of Southampton. 
For my own part, who am but as a Thames wherry 
in a world full of tempest and commotion, I know 
so well the value of the creek I have put into, and 
the snugness it affords me, that I have a sensible 
sympathy with you in the pleasure you find in being 
once more blown to Droxford. I know enough of 
Miss Morley to send her my compliments ; to which, 



WILLIAM COWPER. 27 

if I had never seen her, her affection for you would 
sufficiently entitle her. If I neglected to do it 
sooner, it is only because I am naturally apt to 
neglect what I ought to do ; and if I was as genteel 
as I am negligent, I should be the most delightful 
creature in the universe. 

I am glad you think so favorably of my Huntingdon 
acquaintance ; they are indeed a nice set of folks, 
and suit me exactly. I should have been more 
particular in my account of Miss Unwin, if I had 
had materials for a minute description. She is 
about eighteen years of age, rather handsome and 
genteel. In her mother's company she says little ; 
not because her mother requires it of her, but be- 
cause she seems glad of that excuse for not talking, 
being somewhat inclined to bashfulness. There is 
the most remarkable cordiality between all the parts 
of the family ; and the mother and daughter seem to 
dote upon each other. The first time I went to the 
house I was introduced to the daughter alone ; and 
sat with her near half an hour, before her brother 
came in, who had appointed me to call upon him. 
Talking is necessary in a tete-a-tete, to distinguish the 
persons of the drama from the chairs they sit on : 
accordingly she talked a great deal, and extremely 
well ; and, like the rest of the family, behaved with 
as much ease of address as if we had been old 
acquaintance. She resembles her mother in her 
great piety, who is one of the most remarkable in- 
stances of it I have ever seen. They are altogether 
the cheerfulest and most engaging family-piece it is 
possible to conceive. 



28 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

Since I wrote the above, I met Mrs. Unwin in the 
street, and went home with her. She and I walked 
together near two hours in the garden, and had a 
conversation which did me more good than I should 
have received from an audience of the first prince in 
Europe. That woman is a blessing to me, and I 
never see her without being the better for her com- 
pany. I am treated in the family as if I was a near 
relation, and have been repeatedly invited to call upon 
them at all times. You know what a shy fellow I am ; 
I cannot prevail with myself to make so much use of 
this privilege as I am sure they intend I should ; but 
perhaps this awkwardness will wear off hereafter. It 
was my earnest request before I left St. Alban's that 
wherever it might please Providence to dispose of me, 
I might meet with such an acquaintance as I find in 
Mrs. Unwin. How happy it is to believe, with a 
steadfast assurance, that our petitions are heard even 
while we are making them ; and how delightful to 
meet with a proof of it in the effectual and actual 
grant of them ! Surely it is a gracious finishing given 
to those means, which the Almighty has been pleased 
to make use of for my conversion. After having been 
deservedly rendered unfit for any society, to be again 
qualified for it, and admitted at once into the fellow- 
ship of those whom God regards as the excellent of 
the earth, and whom, in the emphatical language of 
Scripture, he preserves as the apple of his eye, is a 
blessing which carries with it the stamp and visible 
superscription of divine bounty, — a grace unlimited 
as undeserved ; and like its glorious Author, free in 
its course, and blessed in its operation ! 



WILLIAM COWPER. 29 

My dear cousin ! health and happiness, and above 
all, the favor of our great and gracious Lord, attend 
you ! While we seek it in spirit and in truth, we are 
infinitely more secure of it than of the next breath we 
expect to draw. Heaven and earth have their des- 
tined periods ; ten thousand worlds will vanish at 
the consummation of all things ; but the word of God 
standeth fast ; and they who trust in him shall never 
be confounded. 

My love to all who inquire after me. 



VI. 

ON BECOMING A MEMBER OF THE UNWIN FAMILY, 
To Joseph Hill t Esq. 

November 5, 1765 

Dear Joe, — I wrote to you about ten days ago, 

Soliciting a quick return of gold, 

To purchase certain horse that like me well. 

Either my letter or your answer to it, I fear, has 
miscarried. The former I hope, because a mis- 
carriage of the latter might be attended with bad 
consequences. 

I find it impossible to proceed any longer in my 
present course without danger of bankruptcy. I have 
therefore entered into an agreement with the Rev. 
Mr. Unwin, to lodge and board with him. The family 
are the most agreeable in the world. They live in a 



30 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

special good house and in a very genteel way. They 
are all exactly what I would wish them to be, and I 
know I shall be as happy with them as I can be on this 
side of the sun. I did not dream of this matter till 
about five days ago ; but now the whole is settled. I 
shall transfer myself thither as soon as I have satisfied 
all demands upon me here. 

Yours ever. 

I know nobody so like Mrs. Unwin as my Aunt 
Madan, — I don't mean in person, for she is a much 
younger woman, but in character. 



VII. 

MANNER OF LIFE WITH THE UNWINS. 

To Mrs. Cowfter, at the Park House, Hartford. 

Huntingdon, October 20, 1766 
My dear Cousin, — I am very sorry for poor 
Charles's illness, and hope you will soon have cause 
to thank God for his complete recovery. We have an 
epidemical fever in this country likewise, which leaves 
behind it a continual sighing, almost to suffocation ; 
not that I have seen any instance of it, for, blessed 
be God ! our family have hitherto escaped it, but 
such was the account I heard of it this morning. 

I am obliged to you for the interest you take in 
my welfare, and for your inquiring so particularly 
after the manner in which my time passes here. As 



WILLIAM COWPER. 31 

to amusements, I mean what the world calls such, we 
have none ; the place indeed swarms with them, and 
cards and dancing are the professed business of al- 
most all the gentle inhabitants of Huntingdon. We 
refuse to take part in them, or to be accessaries to 
this way of murdering our time, and by so doing have 
acquired the name of Methodists. Having told you 
how we do not spend our time, I will next say how 
we do. We breakfast commonly between eight and 
nine ; till eleven, we read either the Scripture, or the 
sermons of some faithful preacher of those holy mys- 
teries ; at eleven we attend divine service, which is 
performed here twice every day ; and from twelve to 
three we separate and amuse ourselves as we please. 
During that interval I either read in my own apart- 
ment, or walk, or ride, or work in the garden. We 
seldom sit an hour after dinner, but if the weather 
permits adjourn to the garden, where with Mrs. 
Unwin and her son I have generally the pleasure of 
religious conversation till tea-time. If it rains, or is 
too windy for walking, we either converse within 
doors, or sing some hymns of Martin's collection, and 
by the help of Mrs. Unwin's harpsichord make up a 
tolerable concert, in which our hearts, I hope, are 
the best and most musical performers. After tea we 
sally forth to walk in good earnest. Mrs. Unwin is a 
good walker, and we have generally travelled about 
four miles before we see home again. When the 
days are short, we make this excursion in the former 
part of the day, between church-time and dinner. 
At night we read and converse, as before, till supper, 
and commonly finish the evening either with hymns 



32 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

or a sermon ; and last of all the family are called to 
prayers. I need not tell you that such a life as this 
is consistent with the utmost cheerfulness ; accord- 
ingly we are all happy, and dwell together in unity 
as brethren. Mrs. Unwin has almost a maternal af- 
fection for me, and I have something very like a filial 
one for her, and her son and I are brothers. Blessed 
be the God of our salvation for such companions and 
for such a life ; above all, for a heart to like it. 

I have had many anxious thoughts about taking 
orders, and I believe every new convert is apt to 
think himself called upon for that purpose ; but it 
has pleased God, by means which there is no need 
to particularize, to give me full satisfaction as to the 
propriety of declining it ; indeed they who have the 
least idea of what I have suffered from the dread of 
public exhibitions, will readily excuse my never at- 
tempting them hereafter. In the mean time, if it please 
the Almighty, I may be an instrument of turning 
many to the truth in a private way, and I hope that 
my endeavors in this way have not been entirely un- 
successful. Had I the zeal of Moses, I should want 
an Aaron to be my spokesman. 

Yours ever, my dear cousin. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 33 



VIII. 

MOTIVES FOR INTRODUCING UNWIN TO HIS GRAND 

KINSFOLK. 

To Mrs. Cowper, at the Park House^ Hartford. 

Huntingdon, April 3, 1767. 

My dear Cousin, — You sent my friend Unwin 
home to us charmed with your kind reception of him, 
and with everything he saw at the Park. Shall I once 
more give you a peep into my vile and deceitful 
heart ? What motive do you think lay at the bottom 
of my conduct when I desired him to call upon you ? 
I did not suspect at first that pride and vainglory 
had any share in it ; but quickly after I had recom- 
mended the visit to him, I discovered in that fruitful 
soil the very root of the matter. You know I am a 
stranger here ; all such are suspected characters, un- 
less they bring their credentials with them. To this 
moment, I believe, it is matter of speculation in the 
place, whence I came and to whom I belong. 

Though my friend, you may suppose, before I was 
admitted an inmate here, was satisfied that I was not 
a mere vagabond, and has since that time received 
more convincing proofs of my sponsibility, yet I could 
not resist the opportunity of furnishing him with ocu- 
lar demonstration of it, by introducing him to one of 
my most splendid connections ; that when he hears 
me called "that fellow Cowper," which has happened 
heretofore, he may be able, upon unquestionable evi- 
dence, to assert my gentlemanhood, and relieve me 



34 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

from the weight of that opprobrious appellation. Oh, 
pride ! pride ! it deceives with the subtlety of a ser- 
pent, and seems to walk erect, though it crawls upon 
the earth. How will it twist and twine itself about, 
to get from under the Cross, which it is the glory of 
our Christian calling to be able to bear with patience 
and good will. They who can guess at the heart of 
a stranger, and you especially, who are of a compas- 
sionate temper, will be more ready, perhaps, to excuse 
me in this instance, than I can be to excuse myself. 
But in good truth it was abominable pride of heart, 
indignation, and vanity, and deserves no better name. 
How should such a creature be admitted into those 
pure and sinless mansions, where nothing shall enter 
that defileth, did not the blood of Christ, applied by 
the hand of faith, take away the guilt of sin, and 
leave no spot or stain behind it ? Oh, what continual 
need have I of an almighty, all-sufficient Saviour ! I 
am glad you are acquainted so particularly with all the 
circumstances of my story, for I know that your se- 
crecy and discretion may be trusted with anything. 
A thread of mercy ran through all the intricate maze 
of those afflictive providences, so mysterious to my- 
self at the time, and which must ever remain so to 
all who will not see what was the great design of 
them j at the judgment-seat of Christ the whole 
shall be laid open. How is the rod of iron changed 
into a sceptre of love ! 

I thank you for the seeds ; I have committed 
some of each sort to the ground, whence they will 
soon spring up like so many mementos to remind me 
of my friends at the Park. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 35 

IX. 

DEATH OF MR. UNWIN. 

Mrs. Cowper, at the Park House, Hartford. 

Huntingdon, July 13, 1767. 

My dear Cousin, — The newspaper has told you 
the truth. Poor Mr. Unwin, being flung from his 
horse, as he was going to the church on Sunday morn- 
ing, received a dreadful fracture on the back part of 
the skull, under which he languished till Thursday 
evening, and then died. This awful dispensation has 
left an impression upon our spirits which will not pres- 
ently be worn off. He died in a poor cottage, to 
which he was carried immediately after his fall about 
a mile from home ; and his body could not be brought 
to his house till the spirit was gone to him who gave 
it. May it be a lesson to us to watch, since we know 
not the day nor the hour when our Lord cometh ! 

The effect of it upon my circumstances will only be 
a change of the place of my abode. For I shall still, 
by God's leave, continue with Mrs. Unwin, whose be- 
havior to me has always been that of a mother to a 
son. We know not yet where we shall settle, but we 
trust that the Lord, whom We seek, will go before us, 
and prepare a rest for us. We have employed our 
friend Haweis, Dr. Conyers of Helmsley in York- 
shire, and Mr. Newton of Olney, to look out a place 
for us ; but at present are entirely ignorant under 
which of the three we shall settle, or whether under 



36 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

either. I have written to my Aunt Madan, to desire 
Martin 1 to assist us with his inquiries. It is probable 
we shall stay here till Michaelmas. 



X. 

CONCERNING GRAY AND HIS WORKS. 
To Joseph Hill, Esq. 

April — I fancy the 20th, 1 777. 

My dear Friend, — Thanks for a turbot, a lobster, 
and Captain Brydone : a gentleman who relates his 
travels so agreeably that he deserves always to travel 
with an agreeable companion. I have been reading 
Gray's Works, and think him the only poet since 
Shakespeare entitled to the character of sublime. 
Perhaps you will remember that I once had a dif- 
ferent opinion of him. I was prejudiced. Me did 
not belong to our Thursday society, 2 and was an Eton 
man, which lowered him prodigiously in our esteem. 
I once thought Swift's letters the best that could be 

1 Martin Madan, brother of Mrs. Cowper, and chaplain to 
the Lock Hospital. He was one of the most distinguished 
of the clergy who, departing from the standard of the church, 
were adopting that style of preaching which characterized the 
then rising body of the Methodists. 

2 The Nonsense Club, consisting of seven Westminster 
men who dined together every Thursday. The set whs 
strictly confined to Westminsters. Gray and Mason, being 
Etonians, were objects of its literary hostility and butts of 
its satire. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 37 

written; but I like Gray's better. His humor, or 
his wit, or whatever it is to be called, is never ill- 
natured or offensive, and yet, I think, equally poignant 
with the Dean's. 

I am yours affectionately. 



XI. 

CONCERNING UNREQUITED OBLIGATIONS. 
To Joseph Hill, Esq. 

January I, 1778. 

My dear Friend, — Your last packet was doubly 
welcome, and Mrs. Hill's kindness gives me peculiar 
pleasure, not as coming from a stranger to me, for I 
do not account her so, though I never saw her, but 
as coming from one so nearly connected with your- 
self. I shall take care to acknowledge the receipt of 
her obliging letter, when I return the books. Assure 
yourself, in the mean time, that I read as if the libra- 
rian was at my elbow, continually jogging it, and 
growling out, Make haste. Bat as I read aloud, I 
shall not have finished before the end of the week, 
and will return them by the diligence next Monday. 

I shall be glad if you will let me know whether I 
am to understand by the sorrow you express, that 
any part of my former supplies is actually cut off, or 
whether they are only more tardy in coming in than 
usual. It is useful even to the rich, to know, as 
nearly as may be, the exact amount of their income ; 
but how much more so to a man of my small dimen- 



38 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

sions ! If the former should be the case, I shall have 
less reason to be surprised than I have to wonder at 
the continuance of them so long. 1 Favors are favors 
indeed, when laid out upon so barren a soil, where 
the expense of sowing is never accompanied by the 
smallest hope of return. What pain there is in grati- 
tude, I have often felt ; but the pleasure of requiting 
an obligation has always been out of my reach. 
Affectionately yours. 



XII. 

A BUDGET OF HOME NEWS 

To the Rev. William Unwin, at Stock, Essex. 

September 21, 1779. 
Amico mio, — Be pleased to buy me a glazier's 
diamond pencil. I have glazed the two frames de- 
signed to receive my pine plants ; but I cannot mend 
the kitchen windows, till by the help of that imple- 
ment I can reduce the glass to its proper dimensions. 
If I were a plumber I should be a complete glazier ; 
and possibly the happy time may come when I shall 
be seen trudging away to the neighboring towns with 
a shelf of glass hanging at my back. If government 
should impose another tax upon that commodity, I 
hardly know a business in which a gentleman might 

1 An allusion to the annual allowance made for Cowper's 
support, by subscription among his relatives, immediately 
after his removal from St. Alban's 



WILLIAM COWPER. 39 

more successfully employ himself. A Chinese, of 
ten times my fortune, would avail himself of such an 
opportunity without scruple ; and why should not I, 
who want money as much as any mandarin in China ? 
Rousseau would have been charmed to have seen me 
so occupied, and would have exclaimed with rapture, 
"that he had found the Emilius who (he supposed) 
had subsisted only in his own idea." I would recom- 
mend it to you to follow my example. You will pres- 
ently qualify yourself for the task, and may not only 
amuse yourself at home, but may even exercise your 
skill in mending the church windows ; which, as it 
would save money to the parish, would conduce, to- 
gether with your other ministerial accomplishments, 
to make you extremely popular in the place. 

I have eight pair of tame pigeons. When I first 
enter the garden in a morning, I find them perched 
upon the wall, waiting for their breakfast ; for I feed 
them always upon the gravel-walk. If your wish 
should be accomplished, and you should find your- 
self furnished with the wings of a dove, I shall 
undoubtedly find you amongst them. Only be so 
good, if that should be the case, to announce your- 
self by some means or other. For I imagine your 
crop will require something better than tares to fill it. 

Your mother and I last week made a trip in a post- 
chaise to Gayhurst, the seat of Mr. Wright, about 
four miles off. He understood that I did not much 
affect strange faces, and sent over his servant on pur- 
pose to inform me that he was going into Leicester- 
shire, and that if I chose to see the gardens, I might 
gratify myself without danger of seeing the proprietor. 



40 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

I accepted the invitation, and was delighted with all 
I found there. The situation is happy, the gardens 
elegantly disposed, the hot-house in the most flour- 
ishing state, and the orange-trees the most captivating 
creatures of the kind I ever saw. A man, in short, 
had need have the talents of Cox or Langford, the 
auctioneers, to do the whole scene justice. 
Our love attends you all. Yours. 



XIII. 

ON MR. NEWTON'S REMOVAL FROM OLNEY. 

To Mrs. Newton. 

March 4, 1780 

Dear Madam, — To communicate surprise is al- 
most, perhaps quite, as agreeable as to receive it. 
This is my present motive for writing to you rather 
than to Mr. Newton. He would be pleased with 
hearing from me, but he would not be surprised at 
it ; you see, therefore, I am selfish upon the present 
occasion, and principally consult my own gratifica- 
tion. Indeed, if I consult yours, I should be silent, 
for I have no such budget as the minister's, furnished 
and stuffed with ways and means for every emer- 
gency, and shall find it difficult perhaps, to raise 
supplies even for a short epistle. 

You have observed in common conversation, that 
the man who coughs and blows his nose the oftenest 



WILLIAM COWPER. 41 

(I mean if he has not a cold), does it because he has 
nothing to say. Even so it is in letter-writing ; a 
long preface, such as mine, is an ugly symptom, and 
always forebodes great sterility in the following 
pages. 

The vicarage-house became a melancholy object, 
as soon as Mr. Newton had left it ; when you left it, 
it became more melancholy ; now it is actually occu- 
pied by another family, even I cannot look at it 
without being shocked. As I walked in the garden 
this evening, I saw the smoke issue from the study 
chimney, and said to myself, that used to be a sign 
that Mr. Newton was there ; but it is so no longer. 
The walls of the house know nothing of the change 
that has taken places the bolt of the chamber-door 
sounds just as it used to do ; and when Mr. Page 
goes upstairs, for aught I know, or ever shall know, 
the fall of his foot could hardly, perhaps, be distin- 
guished from that of Mr. Newton. But Mr. New- 
ton's foot will never be heard upon that staircase 
again. These reflections, and such as these, oc- 
curred to me upon the occasion, and though in 
many respects I have no more sensibility left than 
there is in brick and mortar, yet I am not permitted 
to be quite unfeeling upon this subject. If I were in 
a condition to leave Olney too, I certainly would not 
stay in it. It is no attachment to the place that 
binds me here, but an unfitness for every other. I 
lived in it once, but now I am buried in it, and have 
no business with the world on the outside of my sep- 
ulchre ; my appearance would startle them, and 
theirs would be shocking to me. 



42 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

Such are my thoughts about the matter. Others 
are more deeply affected, and by more weighty con- 
siderations, having been many years the objects of a 
ministry which they had reason to account themselves 
happy in the possession of; they fear they shall find 
themselves great sufferers by the alteration that has 
taken place ; they would have had reason to fear it 
in any case. But Mr. Newton's successor does not 
bring with him the happiest presages, so that in the 
present state of things they have double reason for 
their fears. Though I can never be the better for 
Mr. Page, Mr. Page shall never be the worse for me. 
If his conduct shall even justify the worst apprehen- 
sions that have been formed of his character, it is no 
personal concern of mine. But this I can venture to 
say, that if he is not spotless, his spots will be seen, 
and the plainer, because he comes after Mr. Newton. 

We were concerned at your account of Robert, 
and have little doubt but he will shuffle himself out 
of his place. Where he will find another, is a ques- 
tion not to be resolved by those who recommend 
him to this. I wrote him a long letter, a day or two 
after the receipt of yours, but I am afraid it was only 
clapping a blister upon the crown of a wig-block. 

My respects attend Mr. Newton and yourself, ac- 
companied with much affection for you both. 
Yours, dear Madam. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 43 



XIV. 

NIGHT ADVENTURE OF A GINGERBREAD BAKER— 
ENCLOSING A NEW POEM. 

To Mrs. Newton. 

June, 1780. 

Dear Madam, — When I write to Mr. Newton, 
he answers me by letter ; when I write to you, you 
answer me in fish. I return you many thanks for the 
mackerel and lobster. They assured me in terms as 
intelligible as pen and ink could have spoken, that 
you still remember Orchard-side ; and though they 
never spoke in their lives, and it was still less to be 
expected from them that they should speak, being 
dead, they gave us an assurance of your affection 
that corresponds exactly with that which Mr. Newton 
expresses towards us in all his letters. For my own 
part, I never in my life began a letter more at a ven- 
ture than the present. It is possible that I may finish 
it, but perhaps more than probable that I shall not. 
I have had several indifferent nights, and the wind is 
easterly, — two circumstances so unfavorable to me in 
all my occupations, but especially that of writing, 
that it was with the greatest difficulty I could even 
bring myself to attempt it. 

You have never yet perhaps been made acquainted 
with the unfortunate Tom Freeman's misadventure. 
He and his wife returning from Hanslip fair, were 
coming down Weston Lane ; to wit, themselves, their 



44 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

horse, and their great wooden panniers, at ten o'clock 
at night. The horse, having a lively imagination and 
very weak nerves, fancied he either saw or heard 
something, but has never been able to say what. A 
sudden fright will impart activity and a momentary 
vigor even to lameness itself. Accordingly, he 
started, and sprung from the middle of the road to 
the side of it, with such surprising alacrity that he 
dismounted the gingerbread baker and his ginger- 
bread wife in a moment. Not contented with this 
effort, nor thinking himself yet out of danger, he pro- 
ceeded as fast as he could to a full gallop, rushed 
against the gate at the bottom of the lane, and 
opened it for himself, without perceiving that there 
was any gate there. Still he galloped, and with a ve- 
locity and momentum continually increasing, till he 
arrived in Olney. I had been in bed about ten min- 
utes, when I heard the most uncommon and unac- 
countable noise that can be imagined. It was, in 
fact, occasioned by the clattering of tin pattypans 
and a Dutch-oven against the sides of the panniers. 
Much gingerbread was picked up in the street, and 
Mr. Lucy's windows were broken all to pieces. Had 
this been all, it would have been a comedy ; but we 
learned the next morning, that the poor woman's 
collar-bone was broken, and she has hardly been 
able to resume her occupation since. 

What is added on the other side, if I could have 
persuaded myself to write sooner, would have reached 
you sooner ; 't is about ten days old. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 45 

THE DOVES. 

Reasoning at every step he treads, 

Man yet mistakes his way, 
While meaner things, whom instinct leads, 

Are rarely known to stray. 

One silent eve I wander'd late 

And heard the voice of love ; 
The turtle thus address'd her mate, 

And soothed the listening dove : 

Our mutual bond of faith and truth 

No time shall disengage ; 
Those blessings of our early youth 

Shall cheer our latest age : 

While innocence without disguise, 

And constancy sincere, 
Shall fill the circles of those eyes, 

And mine can read them there ; 

Those ills that wait on all below, 

Shall ne'er be felt by me, 
Or gently felt, and only so, 

As being shared with thee. 

When lightnings flash among the trees, 

Or kites are hovering near, 
I fear lest thee alone they seize, 

And know no other fear. 

'T is then I feel myself a wife, 

And press thy wedded side, 
Resolved a union formed for life 

Death never shall divide. 

But oh ! if, fickle or unchaste 

(Forgive a transient thought), 
Thou couldst become unkind at last, 

And scorn thy present lot, 



46 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

No need of lightnings from on high, 
Or kites with cruel beak ; 

Denied the endearments of thine eye, 
This widow'd heart would break. 

Thus sang the sweet sequester'd bird 
Soft as the passing wind ; 

And I recorded what I heard, 
A lesson for mankind. 



The male Dove was smoking a pipe, and the fe- 
male Dove was sewing, while she delivered herself as 
above. This little circumstance may lead you, per- 
haps, to guess what pair I had in my eye. 1 
Yours, dear Madam. 



XV. 



EXPLANATION OF HIS DELAY IN WRITING. — POPE'S 
LETTERS. 

To the Rev. William Unwin. 

June 8, 1780. 
My dear Friend, — It is possible I might have 
indulged myself in the pleasure of writing to you 
without waiting for a letter from you, but for a rea- 
son which you will not easily guess. Your mother 
communicated to me the satisfaction you expressed 
in my correspondence, that you thought me enter- 
taining and clever, and so forth. Now, you must 
know, I love praise dearly, especially from the judi- 

1 Rev. William Bull and his wife, friends of the Newtons, 
whose acquaintance Cowper had recently made. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 47 

eious, and those who have so much delicacy them- 
selves as not to offend mine in giving it. But then, 
I found this consequence attending, or likely to 
attend, the eulogium you bestowed : if my friend 
thought me witty before, he shall think me ten times 
more witty hereafter; where I joked once, I will 
joke five times, and for one sensible remark I will 
send him a dozen. Now, this foolish vanity would 
have spoiled me quite, and would have made me as 
disgusting a letter-writer as Pope, who seems to have 
thought that unless a sentence was well turned, and 
every period pointed with some conceit, it was not 
worth the carriage. Accordingly he is to me, except 
in very few instances, the most disagreeable maker of 
epistles that ever I met with. I was willing, there- 
fore, to wait till the impression your commendation 
had made upon the foolish part of me was worn off, 
that I might scribble away as usual, and write my 
uppermost thoughts, and those only. 

You are better skilled in ecclesiastical law than I 
am. Mrs. Powley desires me to inform her whether 
a parson can be obliged to take an apprentice ; for 
some of her husband's opposers at Dewsbury threaten 
to clap one upon him. Now I think it would be 
rather hard, if clergymen, who are not allowed to 
exercise any handicraft whatever, should be subject 
to such an imposition. If Mr. Powley was a cord- 
wainer or a breeches-maker all the week, and a 
preacher only on Sundays, it would seem reasonable 
enough, in that case, that he should take an appren- 
tice, if he chose it ; but even then, in my poor judg- 
ment, he ought to be left to his option. If they mean 



48 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

by an apprentice a pupil whom they will oblige him 
to hew into a parson, and after chipping away the 
block that hides the minister within, to qualify him 
to stand erect in a pulpit, that indeed is another 
consideration. But still, we live in a free country, 
and I cannot bring myself even to suspect that an 
English divine can possibly be liable to such com- 
pulsion. Ask your uncle, however ; for he is wiser 
in these things than either of us. 

Your mother sends her love to all, and mine comes 
jogging along by the side of it. 



XVI. 



CONCERNING HIS OWN STATE OF MIND AND INCA- 
PACITY FOR SUSTAINED THINKING. 

To the Rev. John Newton. 

July 12, 1780. 

My dear Friend, — Such nights as I frequently 
spend are but a miserable prelude to the succeeding 
day, and indispose me, above all things, to the busi- 
ness of writing. Yet with a pen in my hand, if I am 
able to write at all, I find myself gradually relieved ; 
and as I am glad of any employment that may serve 
to engage my attention, so especially I am pleased 
with an opportunity of conversing with you, though 
it be but upon paper. This occupation, above all 
others, assists me in that self-deception to which I am 



WILLIAM COWPER. 49 

indebted for all the little comfort I enjoy; things 
seem to be as they were, and I almost forget that 
they never can be so again. 

We are both obliged to you for a sight of Mr. 

's letter. The friendly and obliging manner of 

it will much enhance the difficulty of answering it. 
I think I can see plainly that though he does not 
hope for your applause, he would gladly escape your 
censure. He seems to approach you smoothly and 
softly, and to take you gently by the hand, as if he 
bespoke your lenity, and entreated you at least to 
spare him. You have such skill in the management 
of your pen that I doubt not you will be able to send 
him a balmy reproof that shall give him no reason to 
complain of a broken head. How delusive is the 
wildest speculation when pursued with eagerness, 
and nourished with such arguments as the perverted 
ingenuity of such a mind as his can easily furnish ! 
Judgment falls asleep upon the bench, while Imagi- 
nation, like a smug, pert counsellor, stands chattering 
at the bar, and with a deal of fine-spun, enchanting 
sophistry, carries all before him. 

If I had strength of mind, I have not strength of 
body for the task which, you say, some would im- 
pose upon me. I cannot bear much thinking. The 
meshes of that fine network, the brain, are composed 
of such mere spinners' threads in .me, that when a 
long thought finds its way into them, it buzzes, and 
twangs, and bustles about at such a rate as seems to 
threaten the whole contexture. No ; I must needs 
refer it again to you. 

My enigma will probably find you out, and you 
•1 



50 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

will find out my enigma at some future time. I am 
not in a humor to transcribe it now. Indeed I won- 
der that a sportive thought should ever knock at the 
door of my intellects, and still more that it should 
gain admittance. It is as if harlequin should intrude 
himself into the gloomy chamber where a corpse is 
deposited in state. His antic gesticulations would 
be unseasonable at any rate, but more especially so 
if they should distort the features of the mournful 
attendants into laughter. But the mind long wearied 
with the sameness of a dull, dreary prospect will 
gladly fix its eyes on anything that may make a little 
variety in its contemplations, though it were but a 
kitten playing with her tail. 

You would believe, though I did not say it at the 
end of every letter, that we remember you and Mrs. 
Newton with the same affection as ever ; but I would 
not therefore excuse myself from writing what it gives 
you pleasure to read. I have often wished indeed, 
when writing to an ordinary correspondent, for the 
revival of the Roman custom, — salutem at top, and 
vale at bottom. But as the French have taught all 
Europe to enter a room and to leave it with a most 
ceremonious bow, so they have taught us to begin 
and conclude our letters in the same manner. How- 
ever I can say to you, 

Sans ciremonie, 

Adieu, mon ami! 



WILLIAM COWPER. 5 1 

XVII. 

CONCERNING HIS FIRST VOLUME OF POEMS. 

To the Rev. William Unwin. 

May I, 1781. 

In the press, and speedily will be published, in 
one volume octavo, price three shillings, Poems, by 
William Cowper, of the Inner Temple, Esq. You 
may suppose, by the size of the publication, that the 
greatest part of them have been long kept secret, 
because you yourself have never seen them; but 
the truth is, that they are most of them, except what 
you have in your possession, the produce of the last 
winter. Two thirds of the compilation will be occu- 
pied by four pieces, the first of which sprung up in 
the month of December, and the last of them in the 
month of March. They contain, I suppose, in all, 
about two thousand and five hundred lines ; are 
known, or to be known in due time, by the names 
of " Table Talk," " The Progress of Error," " Truth," 
u Expostulation." Mr. Newton writes a Preface, and 
Johnson is the publisher. The principal, I may say 
the only reason why I never mentioned to you, till 
now, an affair which I am just going to make known 
to all the world (if that Mr. All-the-world should 
think it worth his knowing), has been this, — that till 
within these few days I had not the honor to know 
it myself. This may seem strange, but it is true ; 



52 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

for not knowing where to find underwriters who 
would choose to insure them, and not finding it 
convenient to a purse like mine to run any hazard, 
even upon the credit of my own ingenuity, I was 
very much in doubt, for some weeks, whether any 
bookseller would be willing to subject himself to an 
ambiguity that might prove very expensive in case 
of a bad market. But Johnson 1 has heroically set 
all peradventures at defiance, and takes the whole 
charge upon himself. So out I come. I shall be 
glad of my Translations from Vincent Bourne, 2 in 
your next frank. My Muse will lay herself at your 
feet immediately on her first public appearance. 
Yours, my dear friend. 



XVIII. 

CONCERNING THE TRIALS OF PUBLISHING POETRY — 
PROFLIGACY OF THE CLERGY. 

To the Rev. William Unwin. 

May 23, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — If a writer's friends have need 
of patience, how much more the writer ! Your desire 
to see my Muse in public, and mine to gratify you, 
must both suffer the mortification of delay. I ex- 

1 Joseph Johnson, publisher, St. Paul's Churchyard. 

2 Cowper's teacher of Latin at Westminster. Years after- 
wards Cowper described him as " the neatest of all men in 
his versification, though the most slovenly in his person." 



WILLIAM COWPER. 53 

pected that my trumpeter would have informed the 
world by this time of all that is needful for them to 
know upon such an occasion ; and that an advertis- 
ing blast, blown through every newspaper, would 
have said, "The poet is coming ! " But man, espe- 
cially man that writes verse, is born to disappoint- 
ments, as surely as printers and booksellers are born 
to be the most dilatory and tedious of all creatures. 
The plain English of this magnificent preamble is, 
that the season of publication is just elapsed, that 
the town is going into the country every day, and 
that my book cannot appear till they return, that is 
to say, not till next winter. 

This misfortune, however, comes not without its 
attendant advantage : I shall now have, what I should 
not otherwise have had, an opportunity to correct the 
press myself ; no small advantage upon any occasion, 
but especially important where poetry is concerned ! 
A single erratum may knock out the brains of a whole 
passage, and that, perhaps, which of all others the 
unfortunate poet is the most proud of. Add to this, 
that now and then there is to be found in a printing- 
house a presumptuous intermeddler, who will fancy 
himself a poet too, and what is still worse, a better 
than he that employs him. The consequence is, 
that with cobbling, and tinkering, and patching on 
here and there a shred of his own, he makes such a 
difference between the original and the copy, that an 
author cannot know his own work again. Now, as I 
choose to be responsible for nobody's dulness but 
my own, I am a little comforted, when I reflect that 
it will be in my power to prevent all such imperii- 



54 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

nence ; and yet not without your assistance. It will 
be quite necessary that the correspondence between 
me and Johnson should be carried on without the 
expense of postage, because proof sheets would make 
double or treble letters, which expense, as in every 
instance it must occur twice, — first when the packet 
is sent, and again when it is returned, — would be 
rather inconvenient to me, who, as you perceive, am 
forced to live by my wits, and to him, who hopes to 
get a little matter no doubt by the same means. 
Half-a-dozen franks therefore to me, and totidem to 
him, will be singularly acceptable, if you can, with- 
out feeling it in any respect a trouble, procure them 
for me. 

My neckcloths being all worn out, I intend to wear 
stocks, but not unless they are more fashionable than 
the former. In that case I shall be obliged to you 
if you will buy me a handsome stock -buckle, for a 
very little money ; for twenty or twenty-five shillings 
perhaps a second-hand affair may be purchased that 
will make a figure at Olney. 

I am much obliged to you for your offer to sup- 
port me in a translation of Bourne. It is but seldom, 
however, and never except for my amusement, that I 
translate, because I find it disagreeable to work by 
another man's pattern ; I should at least be sure to 
find it so in a business of any length. Again, that 
is epigrammatic and witty in Latin which would be 
perfectly insipid in English ; and a translator of 
Bourne would frequently find himself obliged to sup- 
ply what is called the turn, which is in fact the most 
difficult and the most expensive part of the whole 



WILLIAM COWPER 55 

composition, and could not perhaps, in many in- 
stances, be done with any tolerable success. If a 
Latin poem is neat, elegant, and musical, it is enough ; 
but English readers are not so easily satisfied. To 
quote myself, you will find, in comparing the Jack- 
daw with the original, that I was obliged to sharpen 
a point which, though smart enough in the Latin, 
would, in English, have appeared as plain and as 
blunt as the tag of a lace. I love the memory of 
Vinny Bourne. I think him a better Latin poet than 
Tibullus, Propertius, Ausonius, or any of the writers 
in his way, except Ovid, and not at all inferior to 
him. I love him too with a love of partiality, be- 
cause he was usher of the fifth form at Westminster, 
when I passed through it. He was so good-natured 
and so indolent that I lost more than I got by him ; 
for he made me as idle as himself. He was such a 
sloven, as if he had trusted to his genius as a cloak 
for everything that could disgust you in his person ; 
and indeed in his writings he has almost made amends 
for all. His humor is entirely original ; he can speak 
of a magpie or a cat in terms so exquisitely appropri- 
ated to the character he draws, that one would sup- 
pose him animated by the spirit of the creature he 
describes. And with all this drollery there is a mix- 
ture of rational and even religious reflection at times ; 
and always an air of pleasantry, good-nature, and 
humanity, that makes him, in my mind, one of the 
most amiable writers in the world. It is not common 
to meet with an author who can make you smile, and 
yet at nobody's expense ; who is always entertaining, 
and yet always harmless ; and who, though always 



56 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

elegant, and classical to a degree not always found 
even in the classics themselves, charms more by the 
simplicity and playfulness of his ideas than by the 
neatness and purity of his verse ; yet such was poor 
Vinny. I remember seeing the Duke of Richmond 
set fire to his greasy locks, and box his ears to put it 
out again. 

I am delighted with your project, but not with the 
view I have of its success. If the world would form 
its opinion of the clerical character at large from yours 
in particular, I have no doubt but the event would be 
as prosperous as you could wish. But I suppose 
there is not a member of either house who does not 
see within the circle of his own acquaintance a min- 
ister, perhaps many ministers, whose integrity would 
contribute but little to the effect of such a bill. Here 
are seven or eight in the neighborhood of Olney, 
who have shaken hands with sobriety, and who would 
rather suppress the church, were it not for the emolu- 
ments annexed, than discourage the sale of strong 
beer in a single instance. Were I myself in Parlia- 
ment. I am not sure that I could favor your scheme ; 
are there not to be found within five miles of almost 
every neighborhood parsons who would purchase well- 
accustomed public-houses, because they could secure 
them a license, and patronize them when they had 
done? I think no penalty would prevent the abuse, 
on account of the difficulty of proof, and that no 
ingenuity could guard against all the possible abuses. 
To sum up all in few words, — the generality of the 
clergy, especially within these last twenty or thirty 
years, have worn their surcingles so loose, that 1 



WILLIAM COWPER 57 

verily believe no measure that proposed an accession 
of privilege to an order which the laity retain but 
little respect for, would meet with the countenance 
of the legislature. You will do me the justice to 
suppose that I do not say these things to gratify a 
splenetic humor or a censorious turn of mind ; far 
from it, — it may add, perhaps, to the severity of the 
foregoing observations to assert, but if it does, I can- 
not help asserting, that I verily believe them to be 
founded upon fact, and that I am sure, partly from 
my own knowledge, and partly from the report of 
those whose veracity I can depend upon, that in this 
part of the world at least, many of the most profligate 
characters are the very men to whom the morals, and 
even the souls of others are entrusted ; and I cannot 
suppose that the diocese of Lincoln, or this part of 
it in particular, is more unfortunate in that respect 
than the rest of the kingdom. 

Since I began to write long poems, I seem to turn 
up my nose at the idea of a short one. I have 
lately entered upon one which, if ever finished, can- 
not easily be comprised in much less than a thousand 
lines ! But this must make part of a second publi- 
cation, and be accompanied, in due time, by others 
not yet thought of; for it seems (which I did not 
know till the bookseller had occasion to tell me so) 
that single pieces stand no chance, and that nothing 
less than a volume will go down. You yourself afford 
me a proof of the certainty of this intelligence, by 
sending me franks which nothing less than a volume 
can fill. I have accordingly sent you one, but am 
obliged to add, that had the wind been in any other 



58 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

point of the compass, or, blowing as it does from the 
east, had it been less boisterous, you must have been 
contented with a much shorter letter, but the abridg- 
ment of every other occupation is very favorable to 
that of writing. 

I am glad I did not expect to hear from you by 
this post, for the boy has lost the bag in which your 
letter must have been enclosed, — another reason 
for my prolixity ! 

Yours affectionately. 



XIX. 

HIS OWN STATE OF MIND COMPARED WITH MR NEW- 
TON'S—A NEW SCENE OPENING -RHYMES FOR 
MRS. NEWTON 

To the Rev John Newton. 

August 21, 1 78 1. 
My dear Friend, — You wish you could employ 
your time to better purpose, yet are never idle. In 
all that you say or do, — whether you are alone, or pay 
visits, or receive them ; whether you think, or write, 
or walk, or sit still, — the state of your mind is such as 
discovers, even to yourself, in spite of all its wander- 
ings, that there is a principle at bottom whose deter- 
mined tendency is towards the best things. I do 
not at all doubt the truth of what you say, when you 
complain of that crowd of trifling thoughts that pes- 
ters you without ceasing ; but then you always have 



WILLIAM COWPER. 59 

a serious thought standing at the door of your imagi- 
nation, like a justice of peace with the riot-act in his 
hand, ready to read it, and disperse the mob. Here\ 
lies the difference between you and me. My \ 
thoughts are clad in a sober livery, for the most part : 
as grave as that of a bishop's servants. They turn j 
too upon spiritual subjects ; but the tallest fellow and \ 
the loudest among them all is he who is continually 
crying with a loud voice, Actum est de te ; periisti ! 
You wish for more attention, I for less. Dissipation 
itself would be welcome to me, so it were not a vi- 
cious one ; but however earnestly invited, is coy, and 
keeps at a distance. Yet with all this distressing 
gloom upon my mind, I experience, as you do, the 
slipperiness of the present hour, and the rapidity 
with which time escapes me. Everything around us, 
and everything that befalls us, constitutes a variety 
which, whether agreeable or otherwise, has still a 
thievish propensity, and steals from us days, months, 
and years, with such unparalleled address, that even 
while we say they are here, they are gone. From 
infancy to manhood is rather a tedious period, chiefly, 
I suppose, because at that time we act under the 
control of others, and are not suffered to have a will 
of our own. But thence downward into the vale of 
years is such a declivity that we have just an oppor- 
tunity to reflect upon the steepness of it, and then 
find ourselves at the bottom. 

Here is a new scene opening, which, whether it 
perform what it promises or not, will add fresh 
plumes to the wings of time, — at least while it con- 
tinues to be a subject of contemplation. If the 



60 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

project take effect, a thousand varieties will attend 
the change it will make in our situation at Olney. If 
not, it will serve, however, to speculate and converse 
upon, and steal away many hours, by engaging our 
attention, before it be entirely dropped. Lady Aus- 
ten, very desirous of retirement, especially of a re- 
tirement near her sister, an admirer of Mr. Scott as a 
preacher, and of your two humble servants now in 
the greenhouse, as the most agreeable creatures in 
the world, is at present determined to settle here. 
That part of our great building which is at present oc- 
cupied by Dick Coleman, his wife, child, and a thou- 
sand rats, is the corner of the world she chooses, above 
all others, as the place of her future residence. Next 
spring twelvemonth she begins to repair and beautify, 
and the following winter (by which time the lease of 
her house in town will determine) she intends to 
take possession. I am highly pleased with the plan, 
on Mrs. Unwin's account, who, since Mrs. Newton's 
departure, is destitute of all female connection, and 
has not, in any emergency, a woman to speak to. 
Mrs. Scott is indeed in the neighborhood, and an ex- 
cellent person, but always engaged by a close atten- 
tion to her family, and no more than ourselves a 
lover of visiting. But these things are all at present 
in the clouds. Two years must intervene ; and in 
two years not only this project, but all the projects in 
Europe may be disconcerted. 

Cocoa-nut naught, 

Fish too dear, 
None must be bought 

For us that are here. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 61 

No lobster on earth, 

That ever I saw, 
To me would be worth 

Sixpence a claw. 

So, dear madam, wait 

Till fish can be got 
At a reas'nable rate, 

Whether lobster or not ; 

Till the French and the Dutch 

Have quitted the seas, 
And then send as much 

And as oft as you please. 

Yours, my dear Sir. 



XX. 



CONGRATULATIONS ON THE BIRTH OF A SON. — POEM 
ON " RETIREMENT " IN HAND. — LADY AUSTEN 

To the Rev. William Unwin. 

August 25, 1 78 1. 
My dear Friend, — We rejoice with you sincerely 
in the birth of another son, and in the prospect you 
have of Mrs. Unwin's recovery ; may your three 
children, and the next three, when they shall make 
their appearance, prove so many blessings to their 
parents, and make you wish that you had twice the 
number. But what made you expect daily that you 
should hear from me ? Letter for letter is the law of 
all correspondence whatsoever, and because I wrote 



62 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

last, I have indulged myself for some time in expec- 
tation of a sheet from you. Not that I govern my- 
self entirely by the punctilio of reciprocation, but 
having been pretty much occupied of late, I was not 
sorry to find myself at liberty to exercise my discre- 
tion, and furnished with a good excuse if .1 chose to 
be silent. 

I expected, as you remember, to have been pub- 
lished last spring, and was disappointed. The delay 
has afforded me an opportunity to increase the quan- 
tity of my publication by about a third ; and if my 
Muse has not forsaken me, which I rather suspect to 
be the case, may possibly yet add to it. I have a 
subject in hand, which promises me a great abun- 
dance of poetical matter, by which, for want of a some- 
thing I am not able to describe, I cannot at present 
proceed with. The name of it is " Retirement ; " and 
my purpose, to recommend the proper improvement 
of it, to set forth the requisites for that end, and to 
enlarge upon the happiness of that state of life, when 
managed as it ought to be. In the course of my 
journey through this ample theme, I should wish to 
touch upon the characters, the deficiencies, and the 
mistakes of thousands who enter on a scene of re- 
tirement unqualified for it in every respect, and 
with such designs as have no tendency to promote 
either their own happiness or that of others. But as 
I have told you before, there are times when I am 
no more a poet than I am a mathematician ; and 
when such a time occurs, I always think it better to 
give up the point than to labor it in vain. I shall 
yet again be obliged to trouble you for franks ; the 



1 



WILLIAM COW PER 63 

addition of three thousand lines, or near that number, 
having occasioned a demand which I did not always 
foresee ; but your obliging friend and your obliging 
self having allowed me the liberty of application, I 
make it without apology. 

The solitude, or rather the duality, of our condition 
at Olney seems drawing to a conclusion- You have 
not forgot, perhaps, that the building we inhabit con- 
sists of two mansions- And because you have only 
seen the inside of that part of it which is in our oc- 
cupation, I therefore inform you that the other end 
of it is by far the most superb, as well as the most 
commodious. Lady Austen has seen it, has set her 
heart upon it, is going to fit it up and furnish it, and 
if she can get rid of the remaining two years of the 
lease of her London house, will probably enter upon 
it in a twelvemonth. You will be pleased with this 
intelligence, because I have already told you that she 
is a woman perfectly well bred, sensible, and in every 
respect agreeable ; and above all, because she loves 
your mother dearly. It has in my eyes (and I 
doubt not it will have the same in yours) strong 
marks of providential interposition. A female friend, 
and one who bids fair to prove herself worthy of the 
appellation, comes, recommended by a variety of 
considerations, to such a place as Olney, Since Mr. 
Newton went, and till this lady came, there was not 
in the kingdom a retirement more absolutely such 
than ours. We did not want company ; but when it 
came, we found it agreeable. A person that has 
seen much of the world and understands it well, has 
high spirits, a lively fancy, and great readiness of 



64 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

conversation, introduces a sprightliness into such a 
scene as this which, if it was peaceful before, is not 
the worse for being a little enlivened. In case of 
illness too, to which all are liable, it was rather a 
gloomy prospect, if we allowed ourselves to advert to 
it, that there was hardly a woman in the place from 
whom it would have been reasonable to have ex- 
pected either comfort or assistance. The present 
curate's wife is a valuable person, but has a family of 
her own, and though a neighbor, is not a very near 
one. But if this plan is effected we shall be in a 
manner one family, and I suppose never pass a day 
without some intercourse with each other. 

Your mother sends her warm affections, and wel- 
comes into the world the new-born William. 
Yours, my dear friend. 



XXL 

EMOTIONS AROUSED BY THE SIGHT OF THE OCEAN - 
LADY AUSTEN'S INTENDED VISIT TO LONDON. 

To the Rev. William Unwin. 

September 26, 1 781. 

My dear Friend, — I may, I suppose, congrat- 
ulate you on your safe arrival at Brighthelmstone ; 
and am the better pleased with your design to close 
the summer there, because I am acquainted with 
the place, and, by the assistance of fancy, can with- 
out much difficulty join myself to the party, and par- 
take with you in your amusements and excursions. 






WILLIAM COWPER. 65 

It happened, singularly enough, that just before I 
received your last, in which you apprise me of your 
intended journey, I had been writing upon the sub- 
ject, having found occasion towards the close of my 
last poem, called " Retirement," to take some notice of 
the modern passion for sea-side entertainments, and 
to direct to the means by which they might be made 
useful as well as agreeable. I think with you, that 
the most magnificent object under heaven is the 
great deep ; and cannot but feel an unpolite species 
of astonishment, when I consider the multitudes that 
view it without emotion and even without reflection. 
In all its various forms it is an object of all others 
the most suited to affect us with lasting impressions 
of the awful Power that created and controls it. I 
am the less inclined to think this negligence excusa- 
ble, because, at a time of life when I gave as little 
attention to religious subjects as almost any man, I 
yet remember that the waves would preach to me, 
and that in the midst of dissipation I had an ear to 
hear them. One of Shakspeare's characters says, 
" I am never merry when I hear sweet music." The 
same effect that harmony seems to have had upon 
him, I have experienced from the sight and sound of 
the ocean, which have often composed my thoughts 
into a melancholy not unpleasing nor without its use. 
So much for Signor Nettuno. 

Lady Austen goes to London this day se'nnight. 
We have told her that you shall visit her ; which is 
an enterprise you may engage in with the more alac- 
rity, because as she loves everything that has any 
connection with your mother, she is sure to feel a suf- 
5 



66 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

ficient partiality for her son. Add to this, that your 
own personal recommendations are by no means 
small, or such as a woman of her fine taste and dis- 
cernment can possibly overlook. She has many feat- 
ures in her character which you will admire ; but one. 
in particular, on account of the rarity of it, will en- 
gage your attention and esteem. She has a degree 
of gratitude in her composition, so quick a sense of 
obligation, as is hardly to be found in any rank of life, 
and, if report say true, is scarce indeed in the supe- 
rior. Discover but a wish to please her, and she 
never forgets it ; not only thanks you, but the tears 
will start into her eyes at the recollection of the 
smallest service. With these fine feelings she has 
the most, and the most harmless vivacity you can 
imagine. In short, she is — what you will find her 
to be, upon half an hour's conversation with her; 
and when I hear you have a journey to town in 
contemplation, I will send you her address. 

Your mother is well, and joins with me in wishing 
that you may spend your time agreeably upon the 
coast of Sussex. 



XXII. 

DISLIKE OF IMITATION. 

To the Rev. William Unwin % 

November 24, 1781. 
My dear Friend, — ... A French author I was 
reading last night says, He that has written, will write 
again. If the critics do not set their foot upon this 



WILLIAM COWPER. 67 

first egg that I have laid, and crush it, I shall prob- 
ably verify his observation ; and when I feel my 
spirits rise, and that I am armed with industry suf- 
ficient for the purpose, undertake the production of 
another volume. At present, however, I do not feel 
myself so disposed ; and, indeed, he that would write 
should read, not that he may retail the observations 
of other men, but that, being thus refreshed and 
replenished, he may find himself in a condition to 
make and to produce his own. I reckon it among 
my principal advantages, as a composer of verses, 
that I have not read an English poet these thirteen 
years, and but one these twenty years. Imitation, 
even of the best models, is my aversion ; it is servile 
and mechanical, a trick that has enabled many to 
usurp the name of author who could not have writ- 
ten at all if they had not written upon the pattern 
of somebody indeed original. But when the ear and 
the taste have been much accustomed to the manner 
of others, it is almost impossible to avoid it ; and we 
imitate in spite of ourselves, just in proportion as we 
admire. But enough of this. 

Your mother, who is as well as the season of the 
year will permit, desires me to add her love. The 
salmon you sent us arrived safe, and was remarkably 
fresh. What a comfort it is to have a friend who 
knows that we love salmon, and who cannot pass by 
a fishmonger's shop, without finding his desire to send 
us some a temptation too strong to be resisted ! 
Yours, my dear friend. 



68 THE BEST LETTERS OF 



XXIII. 

AN IMAGINARY CONVERSATION, -PREDICTION OF THE 
RUIN OF ENGLAND IN CONSEQUENCE OF THE LOSS 
OF AMERICA. 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. 

Dece7nber 9, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — Having returned you many 
thanks for the fine cod and oysters you favored me 
with, though it is now morning I will suppose it after- 
noon, that you and I dined together, are comfortably 
situated by a good fire, and just entering on a socia- 
ble conversation. You speak first, because I am a 
man of few words. 

Well, Cowper, what do you think of this American 
war? 

/ To say the truth, I am not very fond of think- 
ing about it ; when I do I think of it unpleasantly 
enough. I think it bids fair to be the ruin of the 
country. 

You. That 's very unpleasant indeed ! If that 
should be the consequence, it will be the fault of 
those who might put a stop to it if they would. 

/. But do you really think that practicable ? 

You. Why not ? If people leave off fighting, peace 
follows of course. I wish they would withdraw the 
forces and put an end to the squabble. 

Now I am going to make a long speech. 

/. You know the complexion of my sentiments 
upon some subjects well enough, and that I do not 



WILLIAM COWPER. 69 

look upon public events either as fortuitous, or abso- 
lutely derivable either from the wisdom or folly of 
man. These indeed operate as second causes ; but 
we must look for the cause of the decline or the 
prosperity of an empire elsewhere. I have long 
since done complaining of men and measures, hav- 
ing learned to consider them merely as the instru- 
ments of a higher Power, by which he either bestows 
wealth, peace, and dignity upon a nation when he 
favors it ; or by which he strips it of all those honors, 
when public enormities long persisted in provoke him 
to inflict a public punishment. The counsels of great 
men become as foolish and preposterous when he is 
pleased to make them so, as those of the frantic 
creatures in Bedlam, when they lay their distracted 
heads together to consider of the state of the nation. 
But I go still farther. The wisdom, or the want of 
wisdom, that we observe or think we observe in those 
that rule us, entirely out of the question, I cannot 
look upon the circumstances of this country without 
being persuaded that I discern in them an entangle- 
ment and perplexity that I have never met with in 
the history of any other, which I think preternatural 
(if I may use the word on such a subject), prodigious 
in its kind, and such as human sagacity can never 
remedy. I have a good opinion of the understanding 
and integrity of some in power, yet I see plainly that 
they are unequal to the task. I think as favorably of 
some that are not in power, yet I am sure they have 
never yet in any of their speeches recommended the 
plan that would effect the salutary purpose. If we 
pursue the war, it is because we are desperate ; it is 



70 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

plunging and sinking year after year into still greater 
depths of calamity. If we relinquish it, the remedy 
is equally desperate, and would prove I believe in the 
end no remedy at all. Either way we are undone. 
Perseverance will only enfeeble us more ; we cannot 
recover the colonies by arms. If we discontinue the 
attempt, in that case we fling away voluntarily what 
in the other we strive ineffectually to regain ; and 
whether we adopt the one measure or the other, are 
equally undone : for I consider the loss of America 
as the ruin of England. Were we less encumbered 
than we are at home, we could but ill afford it ; but 
being crushed as we are under an enormous debt 
that the public credit can at no rate carry much 
longer, the consequence is sure. Thus it appears to 
me that we are squeezed to death between the two 
sides of that sort of alternative which is commonly 
called a cleft stick, the most threatening and porten- 
tous condition in which the interests of any country 
can possibly be found. 

I think I have done pretty well for a man of few 
words, and have contrived to have all the talk to 
myself. I thank you for not interrupting me. 
Yours, my dear friend. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 71 



XXIV. 



POEM ON "FRIENDSHIP" LAID ASIDE.— ENGLAND 
AND AMERICA. 

To the Rev. Joh.71 Newton. 

The last day of 1 781. 

My dear Friend, — ... I shall not bumble John- 
son for finding fault with " Friendship," though I have 
a better opinion of it myself ; but a poet is, of all men, 
the most unfit to be judge in his own cause. Par- 
tial to all his productions, he is always most partial 
to the youngest. But as there is a sufficient quantity 
without it, let that sleep too. If I should live to write 
again, I may possibly take up that subject a second 
time, and clothe it in a different dress. It abounds 
with excellent matter, and much more than I could 
find room for in two or three pages. 

I consider England and America as once one coun- 
try. They were so, in respect of interest, intercourse, 
and affinity. A great earthquake has made a parti- 
tion, and now the Atlantic Ocean flows between them. 
He that can drain that ocean, and shove the two 
shores together, so as to make them aptly coincide, 
and meet each other in every part, can unite them 
again. But this is a work for Omnipotence, and 
nothing less than Omnipotence can heal the breach 
between us. This dispensation is evidently a scourge 
to England ; but is it a blessing to America ? Time 
may prove it one ; but at present it does not seem to 



72 ' THE BEST LETTERS OF 

wear an aspect favorable to their privileges, either 
civil or religious. I cannot doubt the truth of Dr. 
W.'s assertion; but the French, who pay but little 
regard to treaties that clash with their convenience, 
without a treaty, and even in direct contradiction to 
verbal engagements, can easily pretend a claim to a 
country which they have both bled and paid for ; and 
if the validity of that claim be disputed, behold an 
army ready landed, and well-appointed, and in pos- 
session of some of the most fruitful provinces, pre- 
pared to prove it. A scourge is a scourge at one end 
only. A bundle of thunderbolts, such as you have 
seen in the talons of Jupiter's eagle, is at both ends 
equally tremendous, and can inflict a judgment upon 
the West, at the same moment that it seems to in- 
tend only the chastisement of the East. 



XXV. 

CONCERNING DR. JOHNSON'S " LIVES OF THE 
POETS."- ADVICE TO A FATHER. 

To the Rev. William Unwin. 

January 17, 1782. 

My dear William, — I am glad we agree in our 
opinion of King Critic, 1 and the writers on whom he 
has bestowed his animadversions. It is a matter of 
indifference to me whether I think with the world at 
large or not, but I wish my friends to be of my 
1 Dr. Johnson. 



WILLIAM COWPER, 73 

mind. The same work will wear a different appear- 
ance in the eyes of the same man, according to the 
different views with which he reads it ; if merely for 
his amusement, his candor being in less danger of a 
twist from interest or prejudice, he is pleased with 
what is really pleasing, and is not over-curious to dis- 
cover a blemish, because the exercise of a minute ex- 
actness is not consistent with his purpose. But if he 
once becomes a critic by trade, the case is altered. 
He must then at any rate establish, if he can, an opin- 
ion in every mind of his uncommon discernment 
and his exquisite taste. This great end he can never 
accomplish by thinking in the track that has been 
beaten under the hoof of public judgment. He 
must endeavor to convince the world that their favor- 
ite authors have more faults than they are aware of, 
and such as they have never suspected. Having 
marked out a writer universally esteemed, whom he 
finds it for that very reason convenient to depreciate 
and traduce, he will overlook some of his beauties, 
he will faintly praise others, and in such a manner as 
to make thousands, more modest, though quite as ju- 
dicious as himself, question whether they are beau- 
ties at all. Can there be a stronger illustration of all 
that I have said, than the severity of Johnson's re- 
marks upon Prior, I might have said the injustice? 
His reputation as an author who, with much labor 
indeed, but with admirable success, has embellished 
all his poems with the most charming ease, stood un- 
shaken till Johnson thrust his head against it. And 
how does he attack him in this his principal fort ? I 
can recollect his very words, but I am much mistaken 



74 THE BEST LETTERS OE 

indeed if my memory fails me with respect to the 
purport of them. " His words," he says, " appear to 
be forced into their proper places ; there indeed we 
find them, but find likewise that their arrangement 
has been the effect of constraint, and that without vio- 
lence they would certainly have stood in a different 
order." By your leave, most learned Doctor, this is 
the most disingenuous remark I ever met with, and 
would have come with a better grace from Curl or 
Dennis. Every man conversant with verse-writing 
knows, and knows by painful experience, that the 
familiar style is of all styles the most difficult to suc- 
ceed in. To make verse speak the language of prose, 
without being prosaic, — to marshal the words of it in 
such an order as they might naturally take in falling 
from the lips of an extemporary speaker, yet without 
meanness, harmoniously, elegantly, and without 
seeming to displace a syllable for the sake of the 
rhyme, is one of the most arduous tasks a poet can 
undertake. He that could accomplish this task was 
Prior ; many have imitated his excellence in this par- 
ticular, but the best copies have fallen far short of the 
original. And now to tell us, after we and our fathers 
have admired him for it so long, that he is an easy 
writer indeed, but that his ease has an air of stiffness 
in it, in short, that his ease is not ease, but only some- 
thing like it, what is it but a self-contradiction, an 
observation that grants what it is just going to deny, 
and denies what it has just granted, in the same sen- 
tence and in the same breath? But I have filled the 
greatest part of my sheet with a very uninteresting 
subject. I will only say that as a nation we are not 



WILLIAM COWPER. 75 

much indebted, in point of poetical credit, to this too 
sagacious and unmerciful judge ; and that for myself 
in particular, I have reason to rejoice that he entered 
upon and exhausted the labors of his office before 
my poor volume could possibly become an object of 
them. By the way, you cannot have a book at the 
time you mention ; I have lived a fortnight or more 
in expectation of the last sheet, which is not yet 
arrived. 

You have already furnished John's memory with by 
far the greatest part of what a parent would wish to 
store it with. If all that is merely trivial and all that 
has an immoral tendency were expunged from our 
English poets, how would they shrink, and how would 
some of them completely vanish ! I believe there 
are some of Dryden's Fables which he would find 
very entertaining; they are for the most part fine 
compositions, and not above his apprehension ; but 
Dryden has written few things that are not blotted 
here and there with an unchaste allusion, so that you 
must pick his way for him, lest he should tread in the 
dirt. You did not mention Milton's Allegro and 
Penseroso, which I remember being so charmed with 
when I was a boy that I was never weary of them. 
There are even passages in the paradisiacal part of 
the Paradise Lost, which he might study with advan- 
tage. And to teach him, as you can, to deliver some 
of the fine orations made in the Pandaemonium, 
and those between Satan, Ithuriel, and Zephon, with 
emphasis, dignity, and propriety, might be of great 
use to him hereafter. The sooner the ear is formed, 
and the organs of speech are accustomed to the va- 



76 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

rious inflections of the voice, which the rehearsal of 
those passages demands, the better. I should think, 
too, that Thomson's Seasons might afford him some 
useful lessons. At least they would have a tendency 
to give his mind an observing and a philosophical 
turn. I do not forget that he is but a child. But I 
remember that he is a child favored with talents supe- 
rior to his years. We were much pleased with his re- 
marks on your almsgiving, and doubt not but it will 
be verified with respect to the two guineas you sent 
us, which have made four Christian people happy. 
Ships I have none, nor have touched a pencil these 
three years ; if ever I take it up again, which I rather 
suspect I shall not (the employment requiring stronger 
eyes than mine), it shall be at John's service. 
Yours, my dear friend. 



XXVI. 

CONCERNING LADY AUSTEN. 

To the Rev. William Unwin . 

February 9, 1782. 

My dear Friend, — ... I have a piece of se- 
cret history to communicate which I would have im- 
parted sooner, but that I thought it possible there 
might be no occasion to mention it at all. When 
persons for whom I have felt a friendship disappoint 
and mortify me by their conduct, or act unjustly 
towards me, though I no longer esteem them friends, 



WILLIAM COWPER. 77 

I still feel that tenderness for their character that I 
would conceal the blemish if I could. But in mak- 
ing known the following anecdote to you, I run no 
risk of a publication, assured that when I have once 
enjoined you secrecy, you will observe it. 

My letters have already apprised you of that close 
and intimate connection that took place between the 
lady you visited in Queen Ann Street and us. 
Nothing could be more promising, though sudden 
in the commencement. She treated us with as 
much unreservedness of communication as if we 
had been born in the same house and educated 
together. At her departure she herself proposed a 
correspondence, and because writing does not agree 
with your mother, proposed a correspondence with 
me. This sort of intercourse had not been long 
maintained, before I discovered, by some slight inti- 
mations of it, that she had conceived displeasure at 
somewhat I had written, though I cannot now recol- 
lect it. Conscious of none but the most upright, in- 
offensive intentions, I yet apologized for the passage 
in question, and the flaw was healed again. Our cor- 
respondence after this proceeded smoothly for a con- 
siderable time, but at length having had repeated 
occasion to observe that she expressed a sort of ro- 
mantic idea of our merits, and built such expecta- 
tions of felicity upon our friendship as we were sure 
that nothing human could possibly answer, I wrote 
to remind her that we were mortal, to recommend it 
to her not to think more highly of us than the sub- 
ject would warrant, and intimating that when we em- 
bellish a creature with colors taken from our own 



78 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

fancy, and, so adorned, admire and praise it beyond 
its real merits, we make it an idol, and have nothing 
to expect in the end, but that it will deceive our 
hopes, and that we shall derive nothing from it but a 
painful conviction of our error. Your mother heard 
me read the letter, she read it herself, and honored 
it with her warm approbation. But it gave mortal 
offence ; it received indeed an answer, but such an 
one as I could by no means reply to ; and there 
ended (for it was impossible it should ever be re- 
newed) a friendship that bid fair to be lasting ; being 
formed with a woman whose seeming stability of 
temper, whose knowledge of the world, and great 
experience of its folly, but above all, whose sense of 
religion, and seriousness of mind (for with all that 
gayety she is a great thinker), induced us both, in 
spite of that cautious reserve that marks our charac- 
ters, to trust her, to love and value her, and to open 
our hearts for her reception. It may be necessary to 
add, that by her own desire I wrote to her under the 
assumed relation of a brother, and she to me as my 
sister. — Ceu fumus t7i auras. 

I thank you for the search you have made after 
my intended motto, but I no longer need it. I have 
left myself no room for politics ; that subject there- 
fore must be postponed to a future letter. Our love 
is always with yourself and family. We have recov- 
ered from the concern we suffered on account of the 
fracas above mentioned, though for some days it 
made us unhappy. Not knowing but that she might 
possibly become sensible in a few days that she had 
acted hastily and unreasonably, and renew the cor- 



WILLIAM COWPER. 79 

respondence herself, I could not in justice apprise 
you of this quarrel sooner ; but some weeks having 
passed without any proposals of accommodation, I 
am now persuaded that none are intended, and in 
justice to you am obliged to caution you against a 
repetition of your visit. 

Yours, my dear friend. 



XXVII. 

CONCERNING THE PREFACE TO HIS 'POEMS." — 
LADY AUSTEN. — CONTESTED ELECTION. 

To the Rev. William Unwin, 

February 24, 1782. 

My dear Friend, — If I should receive a letter 
from you to-morrow, you must still remember that I 
am not in your debt, having paid you by anticipa- 
tion. Knowing that you take an interest in my pub- 
lication, and that you have waited for it with some 
impatience, I write to inform you that if it is possible 
for a printer to be punctual, I shall come forth on 
the first of March. I have ordered two copies to 
Stock, — one for Mr. John Unwin. It is possible, 
after all, that my book may come forth without a 
Preface. Mr. Newton has written (he could indeed 
write no other) a very sensible as well as a very 
friendly one, and it is printed. But the bookseller, 
who knows him well and esteems him highly, is 
anxious to have it cancelled, and, with my consent 
first obtained, has offered to negotiate that matter 



80 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

with the author. He judges that though it would 
serve to recommend the volume to the religious, it 
would disgust the profane, and that there is in reality 
no need of any Preface at all. I have found Johnson 
a very judicious man on other occasions, and am 
therefore willing that he should determine for me 
upon this. 

Having imparted to you an account of the fracas 
between us and Lady Austen, it is necessary that you 
should be made acquainted with every event that 
bears any relation to that incident. The day before 
yesterday she sent me, by her brother-in-law, Mr. 
Jones, three pair of worked ruffles, with advice that I 
should soon receive a fourth. I knew they were be- 
gun before we quarrelled. I begged Mr. Jones to 
tell her when he wrote next, how much I thought 
myself obliged, and gave him to understand that I 
should make her a very inadequate, though the only 
return in my power, by laying my volume at her feet. 
This likewise she had previous reason given to ex- 
pect. Thus stands the affair at present ; whether 
anything in the shape of a reconciliation is to take 
place hereafter, I know not ; but this I know, that 
when an amicable freedom of intercourse, and that 
unreserved confidence which belongs only to true 
friendship, has been once unrooted, plant it again 
with what care you may, it is very difficult, if not im- 
possible, to make it grow. The fear of giving offence 
to a temper too apt to take it is unfavorable to that 
comfort we propose to ourselves even in our ordinary 
connections, but absolutely incompatible with the 
pleasures of real friendship. She is to spend the 



WILLIAM COWPER. 81 

summer in our neighborhood. Lady Peterborough 
and Miss Mordaunt are to be of the party ; the 
former a dissipated woman of fashion, and the latter 
a haughty beauty. Retirement is our passion and 
our delight ; it is in still life alone we look for that 
measure of happiness we can rationally expect below. 
What have we to do therefore with characters like 
these? Shall we go to the dancing-school again? 
Shall we cast off the simplicity of our plain and artless 
demeanor, to learn, and not in a youthful day, neither, 
the manners of those whose manners at the best are 
their only recommendation, and yet can in reality 
recommend them to none but to people like them- 
selves ? This would be folly which nothing but ne- 
cessity could excuse, and in our case no such neces- 
sity can possibly obtain. We will not go into the 
world ; and if the world would come to us, we must 
give it the French answer, — ■ Monsieur et Madame 
ne sont pas visibles. 

There are but few persons to whom I present my 
book. The Lord Chancellor * is one. I enclose in 
a packet I send by this post to Johnson a letter to 
his Lordship which will accompany the volume ; and 
to you I enclose a copy of it, because I know you 
will have a friendly curiosity to see it. An author is 
an important character. Whatever his merits may 

1 Edward Thurlow, formerly Cowper's fellow-clerk in a 
solicitor's office, now recently become Lord Chancellor. In 
those early days Cowper had prophesied, " I shall be always 
nobody, and you will be chancellor ; " whereupon Thurlow 
had given a sportive promise to provide for his obscure 
friend. 

6 



82 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

be, the mere circumstance of authorship warrants his 
approach to persons whom otherwise perhaps he 
could hardly address without being deemed imperti- 
nent. He can do me no good. If I should hap- 
pen to do him a little, I shall be a greater man than 
he. I have ordered a copy likewise to Mr. Robert 
Smith. 

Lord Sandwich has been hard run, but I consider 
the push that has been made to displace him as the 
effort of a faction, rather than as the struggle of true 
patriotism convinced of his delinquency, and desirous 
to sacrifice him to the interests of the country. 
Without public virtue public prosperity cannot be 
long lived, and where must we look for it ? It seems 
indeed to have a share in the motives that animate 
one or two of the popular party ; but grant them 
sincere, which is a very charitable concession, the 
rest are evidently naught, and the quantity of salt is 
too small to season the mass. 

I hope John continues to be pleased, and to give 
pleasure. If he loves instruction, he has a tutor who 
can give him plentifully of what he loves ; and with 
his natural abilities his progress must be such as you 
would wish. 

Yours. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 83 

XXVIII. 

LADY AUSTEN. —SUNDAY ROUTS. 

To the Rev. William Unwin. 

March 7, 1782. 

My dear .Friend, — We have great pleasure in 
the contemplation of your Northern journey, as it 
promises us a sight of you and yours by the way, 
and are only sorry that Miss Shuttleworth cannot be 
of the party. A line to ascertain the hour when we 
may expect you, by the next preceding post, will 
be welcome. 

We are far from wishing a renewal of the con- 
nection we have lately talked about. We did indeed 
find it in a certain way an agreeable one while that 
lady continued in the country, yet not altogether 
compatible with our favorite plan, with that silent 
retirement in which we have spent so many years, 
and in which we wish to spend what are yet before 
us. She is exceedingly sensible, has great quickness 
of parts, and an uncommon fluency of expression, but 
her vivacity was sometimes too much for us ; occa- 
sionally perhaps it might refresh and revive us, but it 
more frequently exhausted us, neither your mother 
nor I being in that respect at all a match for her. 
But after all, it does not entirely depend upon us, 
whether our former intimacy shall take place again 
or not ; or rather whether we shall attempt to culti- 
vate it, or give it over, as we are most inclined to 
do, in despair. I suspect a little by her sending the 



84 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

ruffles, and by the terms in which she spoke of us to 
you, that some overtures on her part are to be looked 
for. Should this happen, however we may wish to 
be reserved, we must not be rude ; but I can answer 
for us both, that we shall enter into the connection 
again with great reluctance, not hoping for any bet- 
ter fruit of it than it has already produced. If you 
thought she fell short of the description I gave of 
her, I still think however that it was not a partial 
one, and that it did not make too favorable a repre- 
sentation of her character. You must have seen her 
to a disadvantage ; a consciousness of a quarrel so 
recent, and in which she had expressed herself with 
a warmth that she knew must have affronted and 
shocked us both, must unavoidably have produced 
its effect upon her behavior, which though it could 
not be awkward, must have been in some degree 
unnatural, her attention being necessarily pretty much 
engrossed by a recollection of what had passed be- 
tween us. I would by no means have hazarded you 
into her company, if I had not been sure that she 
would treat you with politeness, and almost per- 
suaded that she would soon see the unreasonableness 
of her conduct, and make a suitable apology. 1 

It is not much for my advantage that the printer 
delays so long to gratify your expectation. It is a 
state of mind that is apt to tire and disconcert us ; 
and there are but few pleasures that make us amends 
for the pain of repeated disappointment. I take it 
for granted you have not received the volume, not 

1 Shortly after this, a reconciliation occurred, and the old 

easy relations were resumed. 



WILLIAM COW PER. 85 

having received it myself, nor indeed heard from 
Johnson, since he fixed the first of the month for 
its publication. 

What a medley are our public prints, half the page 
filled with the ruin of the country, and the other half 
filled with the vices and pleasures of it ; — here an 
island taken, and there a new comedy ; — here an 
empire lost, and there an Italian opera, or the Duke 
of Gloucester's rout on a Sunday ! 

" May it please your R. H. ! I am an Englishman, 
and must stand or fall with the nation. Religion, its 
true Palladium, has been stolen away ; and it is crum- 
bling into dust. Sin ruins us, the sins of the great 
especially, and of their sins especially the violation 
of the Sabbath, because it is naturally productive of 
all the rest. Is it fit that a Prince should make the 
Sabbath a day of dissipation, and that, not content 
with his own personal profanation of it, he should 
invite all whose rank entitles them to the honor of 
such distinction, to partake with him in his guilt? 
Are examples operative in proportion to the dignity 
of those who set them? Whose then more per- 
nicious than your own in this flagrant instance of 
impiety? For shame, Sir! — if you wish well to 
your brother's arms, and would be glad to see the 
kingdom emerging again from her ruins, pay more 
respect to an ordinance that deserves the deepest ! 
I do not say pardon this short remonstrance ; the 
concern I feel for my country, and the interest I 
have in its prosperity, give me a right to make it. 
I am, etc." 

Thus one might write to his Highness, and, I sup- 
pose, might be as profitably employed in whistling the 



86 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

tune of an old ballad. Lord P had a rout, too, 

on the same day. Is he the son of that P who 

bought Punch for a hundred pounds, and having kept 
him a week, tore him limb from limb because he was 
sullen and would not speak ? Probably he is. 

I have no copy of the Preface. 1 nor do I know at 
present how Johnson and Mr. Newton have settled 
it. In the matter of it there was nothing offensively 
peculiar. But it was thought too pious. 
Yours, my dear friend. 



XXIX. 

THE SWEETNESS OF PRAISE FROM FRIENDS. —THE 
LORD CHANCELLOR'S SILENCE. 

To the Rev. William Unwin. 

March iS, 1782. 

(My dear Friend, — Nothing has given me so 
much pleasure, since the publication of my volume, 
as your favorable opinion of it. It may possibly meet 
with acceptance from hundreds whose commenda- 
tion would afford me no other satisfaction than what 
I should find in the hope that it might do them good. 
I have some neighbors in this place who say they 
like it, — doubtless I had rather they should than that 
they should not, — but I know them to be persons 
of no more taste in poetry than skill in the mathe- 
matics ; their applause, therefore, is a sound that has 
no music in it for me. But my vanity was not so 

1 Written by Mr. Newton for Cowper's volume, but ob- 
jected to by Johnson the publisher. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 87 

entirely quiescent when I read your friendly account 
of the manner in which it had affected you. It was 
tickled and pleased, and told me, in a pretty loud 
whisper, that others, perhaps, of whose taste and 
judgment I had a high opinion, would approve it 
too. As a giver of good counsel, I wish to please^ 
all ; as an author, I am perfectly indifferent to the 
judgment of all except the few who are indeed judi-J 
cious. The circumstance, however, in your letter 
which pleased me most was that you wrote in high 
spirits, and though you said much, suppressed more, 
lest you should hurt my delicacy; my delicacy is 
obliged to you, — but you observe it is not so 
squeamish but that, after it has feasted upon praise 
expressed, it can find a comfortable dessert in the 
contemplation of praise implied. I now feel as if I 
should be glad to begin another volume, but from the 
will to the power is a step too wide for me to take at 
present, and the season of the year brings with it so 
many avocations into the garden, where I am my own 
factotum, that I have little or no leisure for the quill. 
I should do myself much wrong, were I to omit men- 
tioning the great complacency with which I read your 
narrative of Mrs. Unwin's smiles and tears. Persons 
of much sensibility are always persons of taste ; a 
taste for poetry depends, indeed, upon that very ar- 
ticle more than upon any other. If she had Aristotle 
by heart, I should not esteem her judgment so highly, 
were she defective in point of feeling, as I do and 
must esteem it, knowing her to have such feelings 
as Aristotle could not communicate, and as half the 
readers in the world are destitute of. This it is that 



88 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

makes me set so high a price upon your mother's 
opinion. She is a critic by nature, and not by rule, 
and has a perception of what is good or bad in com- 
position that I never knew deceive her ; insomuch 
that when two sorts of expression have pleaded 
equally for the preference in my own esteem, and I 
have referred, as in such cases I always did, the de- 
cision of the point to her, I never knew her at a loss 
for a just one. 

Whether I shall receive any answer from his Chan- 
cellorship or not, is at present m a??ibiguo, and will 
probably continue in the same state of ambiguity 
much longer. He is so busy a man, and at this 
time, if the papers may be credited, so particularly 
busy, that I am forced to mortify myself with the 
thought that both my book and my letter may be 
thrown into a corner as too insignificant for a states- 
man's notice, and never found till his executor finds 
them. This affair, however, is neither ad my libi- 
tum nor his. I have sent him the truth, and the truth 
which I know he is ignorant of. He that put it 
into the heart of a certain Eastern monarch to amuse 
himself one sleepless night with listening to the rec- 
ords of his kingdom is able to give birth to such 
another occasion in Lord Thurlow's instance, and 
inspire him with a curiosity to know what he has 
received from a friend he once loved and valued. 
If an answer comes, however, you shall not long be 
a stranger to the contents of it. 1 

1 An answer never came, nor did the great man ever take 
any notice of his old friend's book, — a slight greatly felt by 
Cowper. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 89 

I have read your letter to their Worships, and 
much approve of it. 1 May it have the effect it ought ! 
If not, still you have acted an humane and becoming 
part, and the poor aching toes and fingers of the 
prisoners will not appear in judgment against you. 
I have made a slight alteration in the last sentence, 
which perhaps you will not disapprove. 
Yours ever. 



XXX. 

ENCLOSING A LETTER FROM BENJAMIN FRANKLIN — 
SPECIAL PROVIDENCES. 

To the Rev- William Unwin. 

May 27, 1782. 

My dear Friend, — Rather ashamed of having 
been at all dejected by the censure of the Critical Re- 
viewers, who certainly could not read without preju- 
dice a book replete with opinions and doctrines to 
which they cannot subscribe, I have at present no 
little occasion to keep a strict guard upon my vanity, 
lest it should be too much flattered by the following 
eulogium. I send it you for the reasons I gave when 
I imparted to you some other anecdotes of a similar 
kind, while we were together. Our interests in the 
success of this same volume are so closely united that 
you must share with me in the praise or blame that 
attends it ; and sympathizing with me under the bur- 
den of injurious treatment, have a right to enjoy with 

1 A letter written by Mr Unwin to the magistrates, asking 
for warmer clothing for the prisoners of Chelmsford jail. 



90 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

me the cordials I now and then receive, as I happen 
to meet with more favorable and candid judges. 

A merchant, a friend of ours 1 (you will soon guess 
him), sent my Poems to one of the first philosophers, 
one of the most eminent literary characters, as well as 
one of the most important in the political world, that 
the present age can boast of. Now perhaps your 
conjecturing faculties are puzzled, and you begin to 
ask, " Who, where, and what is he ? Speak out, for I 
am all impatience." I will not say a word more, the 
letter in which he returned his thanks for the present 
shall speak for him. 

Passy, MayS, 1782. 

Sir, — I received the letter you did me the honor of 
writing to me, and am much obliged by your kind pres- 
ent of a book. The relish for reading of poetry had long 
since left me, but there is something so new in the man- 
ner, so easy and yet so correct in the language, so clear 
in the expression, yet concise, and so just in the senti- 
ments, that I have read the whole with great pleasure, 
and some of the pieces more than once. 1 beg you to 
accept my thankful acknowledgments, and to present 
my respects to the author. 

I shall take care to forward the letters to America, 
and shall be glad of any other opportunity of doing what 
may be agreeable to you, being with great respect for 
your character, 

Your most obedient humble servant, 

B. Franklin. 

We may now treat the critics as the Archbishop of 
Toledo treated Gil Bias, when he found fault with one 
of his sermons. His Grace gave him a kick, and said, 

1 Mr. John Thornton. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 91 

" Begone for a jackanapes, and furnish yourself with a 
better taste, if you know where to find it." 

We are glad that you are safe at home again. 
Could we see at one glance of the eye what is pass- 
ing every day upon all the roads in the kingdom, how 
many are terrified and hurt, how many plundered 
and abused, we should indeed find reason enough to 
be thankful for journeys performed in safety, and for 
deliverance from dangers we are not perhaps even 
permitted to see. When in some of the high south- 
ern latitudes and in a dark tempestuous night a flash 
of lightning discovered to Captain Cook a vessel, 
which glanced along close by his side, and which but 
for the lightning he must have run foul of, both the 
danger and the transient light that showed it were 
undoubtedly designed to convey to him this whole- 
some instruction, — that a particular Providence at- 
tended him, and that he was not only preserved from 
evils of which he had notice, but from many more of 
which he had no information, or even the least sus- 
picion. What unlikely contingencies may neverthe- 
less take place S How improbable that two ships 
should dash against each other, in the midst of the 
vast Pacific Ocean, and that steering contrary courses 
from parts of the world so immensely distant from 
each other, they should yet move so exactly in a line 
as to clash, fill, and go to the bottom, in a sea where 
all the ships in the world might be so dispersed as 
that none should see another ! Yet this must have 
happened but for the remarkable interference which 
he has recorded. The same Providence indeed 
might as easily have conducted them so wide of each 
other that they should never have met at all ; but 



92 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

then this lesson would have been lost ; at least, the 
heroic voyager would have encompassed the globe 
without having had occasion to relate an incident 
that so naturally suggests it. 

I am no more delighted with the season than you 
are. The absence of the sun, which has graced the 
spring with much less of his presence than he vouch- 
safed to the winter, has a very uncomfortable effect 
upon my frame. I feel an invincible aversion to em- 
ployment, which I am yet constrained to fly to as my 
only remedy against something worse. If I do noth- 
ing, I am dejected ; if I do anything, I am weary ; 
and that weariness is best described by the word "las- 
situde," which is of all weariness in the world the most 
oppressive. But enough of myself and the weather. 

The blow we have struck in the West Indies 1 will, 
I suppose, be decisive at least for the present year, 
and so far as that part of our possessions is concerned 
in the present conflict. But the news-writers and 
their correspondents disgust me, and make me sick. 
One victory after such a long series of adverse occur- 
rences has filled them with self-conceit and imperti- 
nent boasting ; and while Rodney is almost accounted 
a Methodist for ascribing his success to Providence, 
men who have renounced all dependence upon such 
a friend, without whose assistance nothing can be 
done, threaten to drive the French out of the sea, 
laugh at the Spaniards, sneer at the Dutch, and are 
to carry the world before them. Our enemies are apt 
to brag, and we deride them for it ; but we can sing 
as loud as they can, in the same key, and no doubt 

1 An allusion to the victory gained by Sir George Rodney 
over Count de Grasse, April 12, 1782. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 93 

wherever our papers go, shall be derided in our turn. 
An Englishman's true glory should be to do his busi- 
ness well and say little about it ; but he disgraces 
himself when he puffs his prowess as if he had finished 
his task, when he has but just begun it. 
Yours. 



XXXI. 

AMBITIONS IN REGARD TO AN OLNEY REPUTATION. 

To the Rev. William Unwin. 

June 12, 1782. 

My dear Friend, — Every extraordinary occur- 
rence in our lives affords us an opportunity to learn, 
if we will, something more of our own hearts and 
tempers than we are aware of. It is easy to promise 
ourselves beforehand that our conduct shall be wise 
or moderate or resolute on any given occasion. 
But when that occasion occurs, we do not always find 
it easy to make good the promise, — such a difference 
there is between theory and practice. Perhaps this 
is no new remark ; but it is not a whit the worse for 
being old, if it be true. 

Before I had published, I said to myself : You and 
I, Mr. Cowper, will not concern ourselves much about 
what the critics may say of our book. But having 
once sent my wits for a venture, I soon became anx- 
ious about the issue, and found that I could not be 
satisfied with a warm place in my own good graces, 
unless my friends were pleased with me as much as I 



94 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

pleased myself. Meeting with their approbation, I be- 
gan to feel the workings of ambition. It is well, said I, 
that my friends are pleased ; but friends are sometimes 
partial, and mine, I have reason to think, are not alto- 
gether free from bias : methinks I should like to hear 
a stranger or two speak well of me. I was presently 
gratified by the approbation of the London Magazine, 
and the Gentleman's, particularly by that of the for- 
mer, and by the plaudit of Dr. Franklin. By the way, 
magazines are publications we have but little respect 
for. till we ourselves are chronicled in them, and then 
they assume an importance in our esteem which be- 
fore we could not allow them. But the Monthly Re- 
view, the most formidable of all my judges, is still 
behind. What will that critical Rhadamanthus say, 
when my shivering genius shall appear before him? 
Still he keeps me in hot water, and I must wait an- 
other month for his award. Alas ! when I wish for a 
favorable sentence from that quarter (to confess a 
weakness that I should not confess to all), I feel my- 
self not a little influenced by a tender regard to my 
reputation here, even among my neighbors at Olney. 
Here are watchmakers, who themselves are wits, and 
who at present perhaps think me one. Here is a 
carpenter and a baker, and, not to mention others, 
here is your idol Mr. Teedon, whose smile is fame. 
All these read the Monthly Review, and all these will 
set me down for a dunce, if those terrible critics show 
them the example. But oh ! wherever else I am ac- 
counted dull, dear Mr. Griffith, let me pass for a ge- 
nius at Olney ! 



WILLIAM COWPER. 95 


XXXII. 

OLNEY CHARITIES —JOHN GILPIN, 

To the Rev. William Unwin. 

November 18, 1782. 
My dear William, — On the part of the poor, and 
on our part, be pleased to make acknowledgments 
such as the occasion calls for to our beneficent friend 
Mr. Smith. 1 I call him ours, because having experi- 
enced his kindness to myself in a former instance, and 
in the present his disinterested readiness to succor 
the distressed, my ambition will be satisfied with noth- 
ing less. He may depend upon the strictest secrecy ; 
no creature shall hear him mentioned, either now or 
hereafter, as the person from whom we have received 
this bounty. But when I speak of him, or hear him 
spoken of by others, which sometimes happens, I 
shall not forget what is due to so rare a character. I 
wish, and your mother wishes it too, that he could 
sometimes take us in his way to Nottingham ; he will 
find us happy to receive a person whom we must 
needs account it an honor to know. We shall exer- 
cise our best discretion in the disposal of the money ; 
but in this town, where the gospel has been preached 
so many years, where the people have been favored 
so long with laborious and conscientious ministers, it 
is not an easy thing to find those who make no pro- 
fession of religion at all, and are yet proper objects 
of charity. The profane are so profane, so drunken, 

1 Afterward Lord Carrington. 



96 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

dissolute, and in every respect worthless, that to make 
them partakers of his bounty would be to abuse it. 
We promise, however, that none shall touch it but such 
as are miserably poor, yet at the same time industri- 
ous and honest, — two characters frequently united 
here, where the most watchful and unremitting labor 
will hardly procure them bread. We make none but 
the cheapest laces, and the price of them is fallen almost 
to nothing. Thanks are due to yourself likewise, and 
are hereby accordingly rendered, for waiving your 
claim in behalf of your own parishioners. You are 
always with them, and they are always, at least some 
of them, the better for your residence among them. 
Olney is a populous place, inhabited chiefly by the 
half-starved and the ragged of the earth, and it is not 
possible for our small party and small ability to ex- 
tend their operations so far as to be much felt among 
such numbers. Accept therefore your share of their 
gratitude, and be convinced that when they pray for 
a blessing upon those who have relieved their wants, 
He that answers that prayer, and when he answers it, 
will remember his servant at Stock. 

I little thought, when I was writing the history 
of John Gilpin, that he would appear in print. I in- 
tended to laugh, and to make two or three others 
laugh, of whom you were one. But now all the 
world laughs, at least if they have the same relish for 
a tale ridiculous in itself, and quaintly told, as we 
have. Well, they do not always laugh so inno- 
cently or at so small an expense, — for in a world 
like this, abounding with subjects for satire, and with 
satirical wits to mark them, a laugh that hurts nobody 



1 VILLI AM COWPER 97 

has at least the grace of novelty to recommend it. 
Swift's darling motto was, Vive la bagatelle, — a good 
wish for a philosopher of his complexion, the greater 
part of whose wisdom, whencesoever it came, most 
certainly came not from above. La bagatelle has no 
enemy in me, though it has neither so warm a friend 
nor so able a one as it had in him. If I trifle, and 
merely trifle, it is because I am reduced to it by ne- 
cessity, — a melancholy, that nothing else so effectu- 
ally disperses, engages me sometimes in the arduous 
task of being merry by force. And. strange as it may 
seem, the most ludicrous lines I ever wrote have been 
written in the saddest mood, and, but for that saddest 
mood, perhaps had never been written at all. 1 To say 
truth, it would be but a shocking vagary, should 
the mariners on board a ship buffeted by a terrible 
storm employ themselves in riddling and dancing; 
yet sometimes much such a part act I. 

I hear from Mrs. Newton that some great persons 
have spoken with great approbation of a certain 
book. Who they are, and what they have said, I 
am to be told in a future letter. The Monthly Re- 
viewers m the mean time have satisfied me w r ell 
enough. Yours, my dear William. 

1 The story of John Gilpin was told to Cowper by Lady 
Austen, as she had heard it in her childhood, on an afternoon 
when he had appeared more than usually depressed. The 
next morning he said to her that he bad been kept awake 
during the greater part of the night by thinking of the storv 
and laughing at it, and that he had turned it into a ballad. 
The ballad was sent to Mr. Unwin, who had it printed in the 
" Public Advertiser ; " Cowper little anticipated what a race of 
popularity the famous horseman was to run. 



98 THE BEST LETTERS OF 



XXXIII. 

A GROUP OF OLNEY .POLITICIANS. — ENGLAND IN THE 
AMERICAN WAR MORE SINNED AGAINST THAN 
SINNING. 

To the Rev. John Newton. 

January 26, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — It is reported among persons 
of the best intelligence at Olney — the barber, the 
schoolmaster, and the drummer of a corps quartered 
at this place — that the belligerent powers are at last 
reconciled, the articles of the treaty adjusted, and 
that peace is at the door. I saw this morning, at 
nine o'clock, a group of about twelve figures very 
closely engaged in a conference, as I suppose, upon 
the same subject. The scene of consultation was a 
blacksmith's shed, very comfortably screened from 
the wind, and directly opposed to the morning sun. 
Some held their hands behind them, some had them 
folded across their bosom, and others had thrust them 
into their breeches pockets. Every man's posture 
bespoke a pacific turn of mind ; but the distance be- 
ing too great for their words to reach me, nothing 
transpired. I am willing, however, to hope that the 
secret will not be a secret long, and that you and I, 
equally interested in the event, though not perhaps 
equally well-informed, shall soon have an opportu- 
nity to rejoice in the completion of it. The powers 
of Europe have clashed with each other to a fine 
purpose ; l that the Americans, at length declared in- 

1 France, Spain, and Holland, all of whom united with 
America against England. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 99 

dependent, may keep themselves so, if they can ; and 
that what the parties who have thought proper to 
dispute upon that point have wrested from each other 
in the course of the conflict may be, in the issue of 
it, restored to the proper owner. Nations may be 
guilty of a conduct that would render an individual 
infamous forever, and yet carry their heads high, 
talk of their glory, and despise their neighbors. Your 
opinions and mine, I mean our political ones, are not 
exactly of a piece, yet I cannot think otherwise upon 
this subject than I have always done. England, more 
perhaps through the fault of her generals than her 
councils, has in some instances acted with a spirit of 
cruel animosity she was never chargeable with till now. 
But this is the worst that can be said. On the other 
hand, the Americans, who, if they had contented 
themselves with a struggle for lawful liberty, would 
have deserved applause, seem to me to have incurred 
the guilt of parricide, by renouncing their parent, by 
making her ruin their favorite object, and by associat- 
ing themselves with their worst enemy, for the accom- 
plishment of their purpose. France, and of course 
Spain, have acted a treacherous, a thievish part. 
They have stolen America from England ; and whether 
they are able to possess themselves of that jewel or 
not hereafter, it was doubtless what they intended. 
Holland appears to me in a meaner light than any of 
them. They quarrelled with a friend for an enemy's 
sake. The French led them by the nose, and the 
English have thrashed them for suffering it. My 
views of the contest being, and having been always 
such, I have consequently brighter hopes for Eng- 



ioo THE BEST LETTERS OF 

land than her situation some time since seemed to 
justify. She is the only injured party. America 
may, perhaps, call her the aggressor ; but if she were 
so, i\merica has not only repelled the injury, but done 
a greatei . As to the rest, if perfidy, treachery, ava- 
rice, and ambition can prove their cause to have been 
a rotten one, those proofs are found upon therm I 
think, therefore, that whatever scourge may be pre- 
pared for England on some future day, her ruin is 
not yet to be expected. 

Acknowledge, now, that I am worthy of a place 
under the shed I described, and that I should make 
no small figure among the quidnuncs of Olney. 

I wish the society you have formed may prosper. 1 
Your subjects will be of greater importance, and dis- 
cussed with more sufficiency. The earth is a grain 
of sand, but the spiritual interests of man are com- 
mensurate with the heavens. 

Pray remind Mr. Bull, who has too much genius 
to have a good memory, that he has an account to 
settle for Mrs. Unwin with her grocer, and give our 
love to him. Accept for yourself and Mrs. Newton 
your just share of the same commodity, with our 
united thanks for a very fine barrel of oysters. This, 
indeed, is rather commending the barrel than its con- 
tents. I should say, therefore, for a barrel of very 
fine oysters. 

Yours, my dear friend, as ever. 

1 The Eclectic Society, consisting of Newton, Scott, Cecil, 
Foster, and other ministers, who met at stated intervals for 
mental edification. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 101 



XXXIV. 



RESTORATION OF FRIENDSHIP BETWEEN THE KINGS 
OF ENGLAND AND FRANCE, 

To the Rev. William Uniuin. 

February 2, 1783. 

I give you joy of the restoration of that sincere 
and firm friendship between the Kings of England 
and France that has been so long interrupted. It is 
great pity when hearts so cordially united are divided 
by trifles. Thirteen pitiful colonies, which the King 
of England chose to keep and the King of France 
to obtain if he could, have disturbed that harmony 
which would else, no doubt, have subsisted between 
those illustrious personages to this moment. If the 
King of France, whose greatness of mind is only 
equalled by that of his Queen, had regarded them, 
unworthy of his notice as they were, with an eye of 
suitable indifference ; or had he thought it a matter 
deserving in any degree his princely attention, that 
they were, in reality, the property of his good friend 
the King of England ; or had the latter been less 
obstinately determined to hold fast his interest in 
them ; and could he, with that civility and politeness 
in which monarchs are expected to excel, have en- 
treated his Majesty of France to accept a bagatelle, 
for which he seemed to have conceived so strong 
a predilection, all this mischief had been prevented. 
But monarchs, alas ! crowned and sceptred as they 



102 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

are, are yet but men ; they fall out and are recon- 
ciled, just like the meanest of their subjects. I can- 
not, however, sufficiently admire the moderation and 
magnanimity of the King of England. His dear 
friend on the other side of the Channel has not, 
indeed, taken actual possession of the colonies in 
question, but he has effectually wrested them out of 
the hands of their original owner ; who, nevertheless, 
letting fall the extinguisher of patience upon the flame 
of his resentment, and glowing with no other flame 
than that of the sincerest affection, embraces the 
King of France again, gives him Senegal and Goree 
in Africa, gives him the islands he had taken from 
him in the West, gives him his conquered territories in 
the East, gives him a fishery upon the banks of New- 
foundland ; and, as if all this were too little, merely 
because he knows that Louis has a partiality for the 
King of Spain, gives to the latter an island in the Medi- 
terranean which thousands of English had purchased 
with their lives, and in America all that he wanted, — 
at least, all that he could ask. No doubt there will be 
great cordiality between this royal trio for the future ; 
and though wars may perhaps be kindled between 
their posterity some ages hence, the present genera- 
tion shall never be witnesses of such a calamity again. 
I expect soon to hear that the Queen of France, who 
just before this rupture happened made the Queen of 
England a present of a watch, has, in acknowledg- 
ment of all these acts of kindness, sent her also a 
seal wherewith to ratify the treaty. Surely she can 
do no less. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 103 

XXXV. 

REFLECTIONS ON THE PEACE. 

To the Rev. John Newton. 

February 8, 1783 

My dear Friend, — When I contemplate the 
nations of the earth, and their conduct towards each 
other, through the medium of scriptural light, my opin- 
ions of them are exactly like your own. Whether they 
do good or do evil, I see them acting under the per- 
mission or direction of that Providence who governs 
the earth, whose operations are as irresistible as they 
are silent and unsuspected. So far we are perfectly 
agreed ; and howsoever we may differ upon inferior 
parts of the subject, it is, as you say, an affair of no 
great consequence. For instance, you think the 
peace a better than we deserve, and in a certain 
sense I agree with you: as a sinful nation we de- 
serve no peace at all, and have reason enough to be 
thankful that the voice of war is at any rate put to 
silence. But when I consider the peace as the work 
of our ministers, and reflect that with more wisdom 
or more spirit they might perhaps have procured 
a better, I confess it does not please me. Such 
another peace would ruin us, I suppose, as effectu- 
ally as a war protracted to the extremest inch of our 
ability to bear it. I do not think it just that the 
French should plunder us and be paid for doing it, 
nor does it appear to me that there was an absolute 



104 THE. BEST LETTERS OF 

necessity for such tameness on our part as we dis- 
cover in the present treaty. We give away all that 
is demanded, and receive nothing but what was our 
own before. So far as this stain upon our national 
honor and this diminution of our national property 
are a judgment upon our iniquities, I submit, and 
have no doubt but that ultimately it will be found to 
be judgment mixed with mercy. But so far as I see 
it to be the effect of French knavery and British 
despondency, 1 feel it as a disgrace, and grumble at 
it as a wrong. I dislike it the more, because the 
peacemaker has been so immoderately praised for 
his performance, which is, in my opinion, a con- 
temptible one enough. Had he made the French 
smart for their baseness. I would have praised him 
too, — a minister should have shown his wisdom by 
securing some points, at least, for the benefit of his 
country. A schoolboy might have made concessions. 
After all, perhaps, the worst consequence of this awk- 
ward business will be dissension in the two Houses, 
and dissatisfaction throughout the kingdom. They 
that love their country will be grieved to see her 
trampled upon, and they that love mischief will have 
a fair opportunity of making it. Were I a member 
of the Commons, even with the same religious senti- 
ments as impress me now, I should think it my duty 
to condemn it. 

You will suppose me a politician ; but in truth I 
am nothing less. These are the thoughts that occur 
to me while I read the newspaper ; and when I have 
laid it down, I feel myself more interested in the suc- 
cess of my early cucumbers than in any part of this 



WILLIAM COWPER. 105 

great and important subject. If I see them droop a 
little, I forget that we have been many years at war, 
that we have made a humiliating peace, 1 that we are 
deeply in debt and unable to pay. All these reflec- 
tions are absorbed at once in the anxiety I feel for a 
plant the fruit of which I cannot eat when I have pro- 
cured it. How wise, how consistent, how respectable 
a creature is man ! 

Because we have nobody to preach the gospel at 
Olney, Mr. C hater waits only for a barn, at present 
occupied by a strolling company ; and the moment 
they quit it, he begins. He is disposed to think the 
dissatisfied of all denominations may possibly be 
united under his standard, and that the great work 
of forming a more extensive and more established 
interest than any of them is reserved for him. 

Mrs. Unwin thanks Mrs. Newton for her kind 
letter and for executing her commissions. She 
means to answer next week by the opportunity of a 
basket of chickens. We truly love you both, think 
of you often, and one of us prays for you ; the 
other will when he can pray for himself. 

1 Lord Shelburne, who made this peace, was taunted for 
it in the House of Commons by Mr. Fox. His defence was 
that he was compelled to the measure, and not so much the 
author as the instrument of it. 



io6 THE BEST LETTERS OF 



XXXVI. 

DOUBTS CONCERNING THE FUTURE PROSPECTS OF 
AMERICA. 

To the Rev. John Newton. 

February 24, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — A weakness in one of my 
eyes may possibly shorten my letter, but I mean to 
make it as long as my present materials and my 
ability to write can suffice for. 

I am almost sorry to say that I am reconciled to the 
peace, being reconciled to it not upon principles of 
approbation but necessity. The deplorable condition 
of the country, insisted on by the friends of adminis- 
tration, and not denied by their adversaries, convinces 
me that our only refuge under Heaven was in the 
treaty with which I quarrelled. The treaty itself I find 
less objectionable than I did, Lord Shelburne having 
given a color to some of the articles that makes them 
less painful in the contemplation. But my opinion 
upon the whole affair is, that now is the time (if in- 
deed there is salvation for the country) for Providence 
to interpose to save it. A peace with the greatest po- 
litical advantages would not have healed us ; a peace 
with none may procrastinate our ruin for a season, 
but cannot ultimately prevent it. The prospect may 
make all tremble who have no trust in God, and even 
they that trust may tremble. The peace will probably 
be of short duration, and, in the ordinary course of 
things, another war must end us. A great country 



WILLIAM COWPER. 107 

in ruins will not be beheld with eyes of indifference, 
even by those who have a better country to look to. 
But with them all will be well at last. 

As to the Americans, perhaps I do not forgive 
them as I ought ; perhaps I shall always think of 
them with some resentment as the destroyers, inten- 
tionally the destroyers, of this country. They have 
pushed that point farther than the house of Bourbon 
could have carried it in half a century. I may be 
prejudiced against them, but I do not think them 
equal to the task of establishing an empire. Great 
men are necessary for such a purpose ; and their great 
men, I believe, are yet unborn. They have had pas- 
sion and obstinacy enough to do us much mischief; 
but whether the event will be salutary to themselves 
or not, must wait for proof. I agree with you that it 
is possible America may become a land of extraor- 
dinary evangelical light ; but at the same time I can- 
not discover anything in their new situation peculiarly 
favorable to such a supposition. They cannot have 
more liberty of conscience than they had ; at least, if 
that liberty was under any restraint, it was a restraint 
of their own making. Perhaps a new settlement in 
Church and State may leave them less. Well, all will 
be over soon. The time is at hand when an empire 
will be established that shall fill the earth. Neither 
statesmen nor generals will lay the foundation of it, 
but it shall rise at the sound of the trumpet. 

Mr. Scott's last child is dead, — died this morning 
at four o'clock. The great blemish it had in its face 
made it a desirable thing that it should not live ; and 
a virulent humor, which consumed the flesh from the 



108 THE BEST LETTERS OE 

bones, made it desirable that it should die soon. It 
lived a little time in a world of which it knew noth- 
ing, and is gone to another in which it is already 
become wiser than the wisest it has left behind. 

Our united thanks both for the worsted and the 
satin ; they are remarkably well dyed. The former 
arrived in the shape of a pair of breeches. 

I am well in body, but with a mind that would wear 
out a frame of adamant ; yet upon my frame, which 
is not very robust, its effects are not discernible. 
Mrs. Unwin is in health. Accept our unalienable 
love to you both. 

Yours, my dear friend, truly. 



XXXVII. 

AMERICAN LOYALISTS. — PROSPECTS OF THE UNITED 

STATES. 

To the Rev. John Newton. 

October, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — I am much obliged to you 
for your American anecdotes, and feel the obligation 
perhaps more sensibly, the labor of transcribing being 
in particular that to which I myself have the greatest 
aversion. The Loyalists are much to be pitied ; ' 
driven from all the comforts that depend upon and 
are intimately connected with a residence in their 
native land, and sent to cultivate a distant one, with- 
out the means of doing it ; abandoned too, through 
a deplorable necessity, by the government to which 

1 Being persecuted by America, and neglected by England. 



WILLIAM COW PER. 109 

they have sacrificed all, — they exhibit a spectacle of 
distress which one cannot view even at this distance 
without participating in what they feel. Why could 
not some of our useless wastes and forests have been 
allotted to their support? To have built them houses 
indeed, and to have furnished them with implements 
of husbandry, would have put us to no small expense ; 
but I suppose the increase of population and the im- 
provement of the soil would soon have been felt as a 
national advantage, and have indemnified the State, if 
not enriched it. But I am afraid that nothing so 
virtuous or so wise is to be looked for in the public 
measures of the present day. We are bountiful to 
foreigners, and neglect those of our own household. 
I remember that, compassionating the miseries of the 
Portuguese, at the time of the Lisbon earthquake, we 
sent them a ship-load of tools to clear away the rub- 
bish with, and to assist them in rebuilding the city. 
I remember, too, it was reported at the time that 
the court of Portugal accepted our wheelbarrows and 
spades with a very ill grace, and treated our bounty 
with contempt. An act like this in behalf of our 
brethren, carried only a little further, might possibly 
have redeemed them from ruin, have resulted in emo- 
lument to ourselves, have been received with joy, and 
repaid with gratitude. Such are my speculations 
upon the subject, who not being a politician by pro- 
fession, and very seldom giving my attention for a 
moment to any such matter, may not be aware of 
difficulties and objections which they of the cabinet 
can discern with half an eye. Perhaps to have taken 
under our protection a race of men proscribed by 



HO THE BEST LETTERS OF 

the Congress might be thought dangerous to the in- 
terests we hope to have hereafter in their high and 
mighty regards and affections. It is ever the way of 
those who rule the earth, to leave out of their reck- 
oning Him who rules the universe. They forget 
that the poor have a friend more powerful to avenge 
than they can be to oppress, and that treachery and 
perfidy must therefore prove bad policy in the end. 
The Americans themselves appear to me to be in a 
situation little less pitiable than that of the deserted 
Loyalists. A revolt can hardly be said to have been 
successful that has exchanged only an apprehended 
tyranny for a real one, and has shaken off the re- 
straints of a well-ordered government, merely to give 
room and opportunity for the jarring opinions and 
interests of its abetters to throw all into a state of 
anarchy. This is evidently the case at present, and 
without a special interposition of Providence is likely 
to be for years to come. They will at last, perhaps, 
after much ill temper and bloodshed, settle into some 
sort of establishment ; but hardly, I think, into a 
more desirable one (and it seems they themselves 
are pretty much of the same opinion) than they en- 
joyed before. Their fears of arbitrary imposition 
were certainly well founded. A struggle therefore 
might be necessary, in order to prevent it, and this 
end might surely have been answered without a re- 
nunciation of dependence. But the passions of a 
whole people, once put in motion, are not soon 
quieted. Contest begets aversion, a little success in- 
spires more ambitious hopes, and thus a slight quar- 
rel terminates at last in a breach never to be healed, 



WILLIAM COWPER. ill 

and perhaps in the ruin of both parties. It does not 
seem likely that a country so distinguished by the 
Creator with everything that can make it desirable 
should be given up to desolation forever, and they 
possibly may have reason on their side who suppose 
that in time it will have the pre-eminence over all 
others ; but the day of such prosperity seems far 
distant : Omnipotence indeed can hasten it, and it 
may dawn when it is least expected. But we govern 
ourselves in all our reasonings by present appear- 
ances. Persons at least no better informed than 
myself are constrained to do so. 

You surprised me most agreeably with a polite and 
sensible letter from Mr. Bacon ; x that good man has 
a place in my heart, though I never saw him and 
never may. I shall never see the print he so oblig- 
ingly presents me with, without sentiments of grati- 
tude and friendship, and shall endeavor to answer 
his letter in such terms as his kindness justly claims, 
as soon as the print arrives. 

We have opened two of the cocoanuts, — one naught 
and the other excellent ; the third promises to be a 
good one. I intended to have taken another subject 
when I began, and I wish I had. No man living is 
less qualified to settle nations than I am ; but when 
I write to you, I talk, — that is, I write as fast as my 
pen can run, and on this occasion it ran away with 

1 The sculptor of Lord Chatham's monument, and thus 
alluded to in " The Task " : — 

" Bacon there 
Gives more than female beauty to a stone, 
And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips." — Book I. 



H2 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

me. I acknowledge myself in your debt for your 
last favor, but cannot pay you now, unless you will 
accept as payment what I know you value more 
than all I can say beside, the most unfeigned assur- 
ances of my affection for you and yours. 
Yours, etc. 



XXXVIII. 

OLNEY NEWS. — ANTICIPATIONS OF BALLOON 
TRAVELLING. 

To the Rev. John Newton. 

November 17, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — A parcel arrived last night, 
the contents of which shall be disposed of according 
to order. We thank Mrs. Newton (not from the 
teeth outwards) for the tooth-brushes. 

The country around us is much alarmed with ap- 
prehensions of fire. Two have happened since that 
of Olney, — one at Hitchin, where the damage is 
said to amount to eleven thousand pounds ; and 
another at a place not far from Hitchin, of which 
I have not learned the name. Letters have been 
dropped at Bedford, threatening to burn the town ; 
and the inhabitants have been so intimidated as to 
have placed a guard in many parts of it, several 
nights past. Some madman or some devil has broke 
loose, who it is to be hoped will pay dear for these 
effusions of his malignity. Since our conflagration 



WILLIAM COWPER. 113 

here, we have sent two women and a boy to the jus- 
tice, for depredation, — Sue Riviss, for stealing a piece 
of beef, which, in her excuse, she said she intended 
to take care of. This lady, whom you well remem- 
ber, escaped for want of evidence ; not that evidence 
was indeed wanting, but our men of Gotham judged 
it unnecessary to send it. With her went the woman 
I mentioned before, who it seems has made some 
sort of profession, but upon this occasion allowed 
herself a latitude of conduct rather inconsistent with 
it, having filled her apron with wearing apparel, 
which she likewise intended to take care of. She 
would have gone to the county jail, had Billy 
Raban, the baker's son, who prosecuted, insisted 
upon it ; but he good-naturedly, though I think 
weakly, interposed in her favor, and begged her off. 
The young gentleman who accompanied these fair 
ones is the junior son of Molly Boswell. He had 
stolen some iron-work, the property of Griggs, the 
butcher. Being convicted, he was ordered to be 
whipped, which operation he underwent at the cart's 
tail, from the stone-house to the high arch, and back 
again. He seemed to show great fortitude, but it 
was all an imposition upon the public. The beadle, 
who performed, had filled his left hand with red 
ochre, through which after every stroke he drew the 
lash of his whip, leaving the appearance of a wound 
upon the skin, but in reality not hurting him at all. 
This being perceived by Mr. Constable Hinschcomb, 
who followed the beadle, he applied his cane, without 
any such management or precaution, to the shoulders 
of the too-merciful executioner. The scene imme- 
8 



H4 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

diately became more interesting. The beadle could 
by no means be prevailed upon to strike hard, which 
provoked the constable to strike harder ; and this 
double flogging continued till a lass of Silver-end, 
pitying the pitiful beadle thus suffering under the 
hands of the pitiless constable, joined the procession, 
and placing herself immediately behind the latter, 
seized him by his capillary club, and pulling him 
backwards by the same, slapped his face with a most 
Amazonian fury. This concatenation of events has 
taken up more of my paper than I intended it should, 
but I could not forbear to inform you how the beadle 
thrashed the thief, the constable the beadle, and the 
lady the constable, and how the thief was the only 
person concerned who suffered nothing. Mr. Tee- 
don x has been here, and is gone again. He came 
to thank me for an old pair of breeches. In answer 
to our inquiries after his health, he replied that he 
had a slow fever, which made him take all possible 
care not to inflame his blood. I admitted his pru- 
dence, but in his particular instance could not very 
clearly discern the need of it. Pump water will not 
heat him much ; and, to speak a little in his own 
style, more inebriating fluids are to him, I fancy, not 
very attainable. He brought us news, the truth of 
which, however, I do not vouch for, that the town of 
Bedford was actually on fire yesterday, and the flames 
not extinguished when the bearer of the tidings 
left it. 

Swift observes, when he is giving his reasons why 

1 A poor schoolmaster at Olney, and one of Covvper's 
pensioners. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 115 

the preacher is elevated always above his hearers, 
that let the crowd be as great as it will below, there 
is always room enough overhead. If the French 
philosophers can carry their art of flying to the per- 
fection they desire, the observation may be reversed, 
the crowd will be overhead, and they will have most 
room who stay below. I can assure you, however, 
upon my own experience, that this way of travelling 
is very delightful. I dreamed, a night or two since, 
that I drove myself through the upper regions in a 
balloon and pair, with the greatest ease and security. 
Having finished the tour I intended, I made a short 
turn, and with one flourish of my whip descended ; 
my horses prancing and curvetting with an infinite 
share of spirit, but without the least danger, either to 
me or my vehicle. The time, we may suppose, is at 
hand, and seems to be prognosticated by my dream, 
when these airy excursions will be universal, when 
judges will fly the circuit, and bishops their visita- 
tions ; and when the tour of Europe will be per- 
formed with much greater speed, and with equal 
advantage, by all who travel merely for the sake of 
having it to say that they have made it. 1 

I beg you will accept for yourself and yours our 
unfeigned love, and remember me affectionately to 
Mr. Bacon when you see him. 

Yours, my dear friend. 

1 Balloons were a new thing at this time, and were at- 
tracting much attention and many speculations from the 
public. 



n6 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

XXXIX. 

FIRST INTRODUCTION TO THE THROCKMORTONS. 

To the Rev. William Univin. 

My dear Friend, — It is hard upon us striplings 
who have uncles still living (N. B. I myself have an 
uncle still alive), that those venerable gentlemen 
should stand in our way, even when the ladies are in 
question ; that I, for instance, should find in one 
page of your letter a hope that Miss Shuttleworth 
would be of your party, and be told in the next that 
she is engaged to your uncle. Well, we may perhaps 
never be uncles ; but we may reasonably hope that 
the time is coming when others, as young as we are 
now, shall envy us the privileges of old age, and see 
us engross that share in the attention of the ladies to 
which their youth must aspire in vain. Make our 
compliments if you please to your sister Elizabeth, 
and tell her that we are both mortified at having 
missed the pleasure of seeing her. 

Balloons are so much the mode that even in this 
country we have attempted a balloon. You may pos- 
sibly remember that at a place called Weston, little 
more than a mile from Olney, there lives a family 
whose name is Throckmorton. The present pos- 
sessor of the estate is a young man whom I remember 
a boy. He has a wife, who is young, genteel, and 
handsome. They are Papists, but much more ami- 
able than many Protestants. We never had any inter- 



WILLIAM COWPER. 117 

course with the family, though ever since we lived 
here we have enjoyed the range of their pleasure- 
grounds, having been favored with a key which 
admits us into all. When this man succeeded to the 
estate, on the death of his elder brother, and came to 
settle at Weston, I sent him a complimentary card, 
requesting the continuance of that privilege, having 
till then enjoyed it by the favor of his mother, who 
on that occasion went to finish her days at Bath. 
You may conclude that he granted it, and for about 
two years nothing more passed between us. A fort- 
night ago, I received an invitation in the civilest terms, 
in which he told me that the next day he should at- 
tempt to fill a balloon, and if it would be any pleasure 
to me to be present, should be happy to see me. Your 
mother and I went. The whole country were there, 
but the balloon could not be filled. The endeavor 
was, I believe, very philosophically made ; but such a 
process depends for its success upon such niceties as 
make it very precarious. Our reception was however 
flattering to a great degree, insomuch that more no- 
tice seemed to be taken of us than we could possibly 
have expected ; indeed, rather more than of any 
of his other guests. They even seemed anxious to 
recommend themselves to our regards. We drank 
chocolate, and were asked to dine, but were engaged. 
A day or two afterwards, Mrs. Unwin and I walked 
that way, and were overtaken in a shower. I found 
a tree that I thought would shelter us both, — a large 
elm, in a grove that fronts the mansion. Mrs. T. ob- 
served us, and running towards us in the rain, insisted 
on our walking in. He was gone out. We sat chat- 



Ii8 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

ting with her till the weather cleared up, and then at 
her instance took a walk with her in the garden. 
The garden is almost their only walk, and is certainly 
their only retreat in which they are not liable to in- 
terruption. She offered us a key of it in a manner 
that made it impossible not to accept it, and said she 
would send us one. A few days afterwards, in the 
cool of the evening, we walked that way again. We 
saw them going toward the house, and exchanged 
bows and courtesies at a little distance, but did not 
join them. In a few minutes, when we had passed 
the house, and had almost reached the gate that 
opens out of the park into the adjoining field, I 
heard the iron gate belonging to the courtyard ring, 
and saw Mr. T. advancing hastily toward us ; we 
made equal haste to meet him, he presented to us 
the key, which I told him I esteemed a singular fa- 
vor, and after a few such speeches as are made on 
such occasions, we parted. This happened about a 
week ago. I concluded nothing less than that all 
this civility and attention was designed, on their part, 
as a prelude to a nearer acquaintance ; but here at 
present the matter rests. I should like exceedingly 
to be on an easy footing there, to give a morning call 
and now and then to receive one, but nothing more. 
For though he is one of the most agreeable men I 
ever saw, I could not wish to visit him in any other 
way, neither our house, furniture, servants, nor income 
being such as qualify us to make entertainments ; 
neither would I on any account be introduced to the 
neighboring gentry, which must be the consequence 
of our dining there, there not being a man in the 



WILLIAM COWPER. 119 

country, except himself, with whom I could endure to 
associate. They are squires, merely such, purse- 
proud and sportsmen. But Mr. T. is altogether a 
man of fashion, and respectable on every account. 

I have told you a long story. Farewell. We 
number the days as they pass, and are glad that we 
shall see you and your sister soon. 
Yours, etc. 



XL. 

VISIT FROM A CANDIDATE. 

To the Rev. John Newton. 

March 29, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — It being his Majesty's pleas- 
ure that I should yet have another opportunity to 
write before he dissolves the parliament, I avail my- 
self of it with all possible alacrity. I thank you for 
your last, which was not the less welcome for coming, 
like an extraordinary gazette, at a time when it was 
not expected. 

As when the sea is uncommonly agitated the water 
finds its way into creeks and holes of rocks which in 
its calmer state it never reaches, in like manner the 
effect of these turbulent times is felt even at Orchard 
side, where in general we live as undisturbed by the 
political element as shrimps or cockles that have 
been accidentally deposited in some hollow beyond the 
water-mark, by the usual dashing of the waves. We 
were sitting yesterday after dinner, the two ladies and 



120 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

myself, very composedly, and without the least appre- 
hension of any such intrusion in our snug parlor, one 
lady knitting, the other netting, and the gentleman 
winding worsted, when to our unspeakable surprise a 
mob appeared before the window ; a smart rap was 
heard at the door, the boys hallooed, and the maid 
announced Mr. Grenville. Puss x was unfortunately 
let out of her box, so that the candidate, with all his 
good friends at his heels, was refused admittance at 
the grand entry, and referred to the back door, as the 
only possible way of approach. 

Candidates are creatures not very susceptible of 
affronts, and would rather, I suppose, climb in at a 
window than be absolutely excluded. In a minute 
the yard, the kitchen, and the parlor were filled. Mr. 
Grenville, advancing toward me, shook me by the 
hand with a degree of cordiality that was extremely 
seducing. As soon as he and as many more as 
could find chairs were seated, he began to open the 
intent of his visit. I told him I had no vote, for 
which he readily gave me credit. I assured him I 
had no influence, which he was not equally inclined 
to believe, and the less, no doubt, because Mr. Ash- 
burner, the draper, addressing himself to me at this 
moment, informed me that I had a great deal. Sup- 
posing that I could not be possessed of such a treas- 
ure without knowing it, I ventured to confirm my 
first assertion, by saying that if I had any I was ut- 
terly at a loss to imagine where it could be, or where- 
in it consisted. Thus ended the conference. Mr. 
Grenville squeezed me by the hand again, kissed the 

1 His tame hare. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 



121 



ladies, and withdrew. He kissed likewise the maid 
in the kitchen, and seemed upon the whole a most 
loving, kissing, kind-hearted gentleman. He is very 
young, genteel, and handsome. He has a pair of very 
good eyes in his head, which not being sufficient as 
it should seem for the many nice and difficult pur- 
poses of a senator, he has a third also, which he wore 
suspended by a riband from his buttonhole. The 
boys hallooed, the dogs barked. Puss scampered ; the 
hero, with his long train of obsequious followers, 
withdrew. We made ourselves very merry with the 
adventure, and in a short time settled into our for- 
mer tranquillity, never probably to be thus interrupted 
more. I thought myself, however, happy in being able 
to affirm truly that I had not that influence for which 
he sued, and which, had I been possessed of it, 
with my present views of the dispute between the 
Crown and the Commons, I must have refused him, 
for he is on the side of the former. It is comforta- 
ble to be of no consequence in a world where one 
cannot exercise any without disobliging somebody. 
The town, however, seems to be much at his service, 
and if he be equally successful throughout the county 
he will undoubtedly gain his election. Mr. Ash- 
burner perhaps was a little mortified, because it was 
evident that I owed the honor of this visit to his 
misrepresentation of my importance. But had he 
thought proper to assure Mr. Grenville that I had 
three heads, I should not, I suppose, have been bound 
to produce them. 

Mr. Scott, 1 who you say was so much admired in 
1 Mr. Newton's successor in Olney. 



122 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

your pulpit, would be equally admired in his own, at 
least by all capable judges, were he not so apt to be 
angry with his congregation. This hurts him, and 
had he the understanding and eloquence of Paul 
himself, would still hurt him. He seldom, hardly 
ever indeed, preaches a gentle, well-tempered sermon, 
but I hear it highly commended ; but warmth of tem- 
per, indulged to a degree that may be called scolding, 
defeats the end of preaching. It is a misapplication 
of his powers, which it also cripples, and teases away 
his hearers. But he is a good man, and may perhaps 
outgrow it. 

Many thanks for the worsted, which is excellent. 
We are as well as a spring hardly less severe than the 
severest winter will give us leave to be. With our 
united love, we conclude ourselves yours and Mrs. 
Newton's affectionate and faithful 

W. C. 

M. U. 



XLT. 

ON BEATTIE ; BLAIR ; THE ORIGIN OF LANGUAGE. 

To the Rev. William Unwin. 

April 5, 1784. 
My dear William, — The hat which I desired you 
to procure for me, I now write to desire that you will 
not procure. Do not hastily infer that I mean to go 
about bareheaded : the whole of the matter is that a 
readier method of supply has presented itself since I 
wrote. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 123 

I thanked you in my last for Johnson ; I now 
thank you with more emphasis for Beattie, the most 
agreeable and amiable writer I ever met with, — the 
only author I have seen whose critical and philo- 
sophical researches are diversified and embellished 
by a poetical imagination that makes even the driest 
subject and the leanest a feast for an epicure in 
books. He is so much at his ease, too, that his own 
character appears in every page, and, which is very 
rare, we see not only the writer, but the man ; and 
that man so gentle, so well-tempered, so happy in his 
religion, and so humane in his philosophy that it is 
necessary to love him, if one has the least sense of 
what is lovely. If you have not his poem called " The 
Minstrel," and cannot borrow it, I must beg you to 
buy it for me ; for though I cannot afford to deal 
largely in so expensive a commodity as books, I must 
afford to purchase at least the poetical works of 
Beattie. 

I have read six of Blair's lectures, and what do I 
say of Blair? That he is a sensible man, master of 
his subject, and excepting here and there a Scotticism, 
a good writer, so far at least as perspicuity of expres- 
sion and method contribute to make one. But oh, 
the sterility of that man's fancy ! if indeed he has 
any such faculty belonging to him. Perhaps philoso- 
phers, or men designed for such, are sometimes born 
without one ; or perhaps it withers for want of exer- 
cise. However that may be, Dr. Blair has such a 
brain as Shakespeare somewhere describes as "dry 
as the remainder biscuit after a voyage." 

I take it for granted that these good men are phil- 



124 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

osophically correct (for they are both agreed upon the 
subject) in their account of the origin of language ; 
and if the Scripture had left us in the dark upon that 
article, I should very readily adopt their hypothesis 
for want of better information. I should suppose, for 
instance, that man made his first effort in speech in 
the way of an interjection, and that " Ah," or " Oh," be- 
ing uttered with wonderful gesticulation, and variety of 
attitude, must have left his powers of expression quite 
exhausted ; that in a course of time he would in- 
vent names for many things, but first for the objects 
of his daily wants. An apple would consequently be 
called an apple, and perhaps not many years would 
elapse before the appellation would receive the sanc- 
tion of general use. In this case, and upon this sup- 
position, seeing one in the hand of another man, 
he would exclaim, with a most moving pathos, u O 
apple ! " Well and good, — " O apple ! " is a very af- 
fecting speech, but in the mean time it profits him 
nothing. The man that holds it eats it, and he goes 
away with " O apple ! " in his mouth, and with noth- 
ing better. Reflecting upon his disappointment, and 
that perhaps it arose from his not being more explicit, 
he contrives a term to denote his idea of transfer or 
gratuitous communication, and, the next occasion that 
offers of a similar kind, performs his part accordingly. 
His speech now stands thus, " Oh, give apple ! " 
The apple-holder perceives himself called upon to 
part with his fruit, and having satisfied his own hun- 
ger, is perhaps not unwilling to do so. But unfortu- 
nately there is still room for a mistake ; and a third 
person being present, he gives the apple to him. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 1.25 

Again disappointed, and again perceiving that his lan- 
guage has not all the precision that is requisite, the 
orator retires to his study, and there, after much deep 
thinking, conceives that the insertion of a pronoun, 
whose office shall be to signify that he not only wants 
the apple to be given, but given to himself, will rem- 
edy all defects, he uses it the next opportunity, and 
succeeds to a wonder, obtains the apple, and by his 
success such credit to his invention that pronouns 
continue to be in great repute ever after. 

Now, as my two syllable-mongers, Beattie and Blair, 
both agree that language was originally inspired, and 
that the great variety of languages we find upon earth 
at present took its rise from the confusion of tongues 
at Babel, I am not perfectly convinced that there is 
any just occasion to invent this very ingenious solu- 
tion of a difficulty which Scripture has solved already. 
My opinion however is, if I may presume to have an 
opinion of my own, so different from those who are 
so much wiser than myself, that if man had been his 
own teacher, and had acquired his words and his 
phrases only as necessity or convenience had prompted, 
his progress must have been considerably slower than 
it was, and in Homer's days the production of such 
a poem as the Iliad impossible. On the contrary, I 
doubt not that Adam on the very day of his creation 
was able to express himself in terms both forcible and 
elegant, and that he was at no loss for sublime dic- 
tion and logical combination when he wanted to 
praise his Maker. 

Yours, my dear friend. 



126 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

XLII. 

ENCLOSING THE MSS. OF 'THE TASK." 

To the Rev. William Unwin. 

October io, 1784. 

My dear William, — I send you four quires of 
verse, which having sent, I shall dismiss from my 
thoughts and think no more of, till I see them in 
print. 1 I have not, after all, found time or industry 
enough to give the last hand to the points. I believe, 
however, they are not very erroneous, though in so 
long a work, and in a work that requires nicety in 
this particular, some inaccuracies will escape. Where 
you find any, you will oblige me by correcting them. 

In some passages, especially in the second book, 
you will observe me very satirical. Writing on such 
subjects, I could not be otherwise. I can write noth- 
ing without aiming at least at usefulness : it were be- 
neath my years to do it, and still more dishonorable 
to my religion. I know that a reformation of such 
abuses as I have censured is not to be expected from 
the efforts of a poet ; but to contemplate the world, 
its follies, its vices, its indifference to duty, and its 
strenuous attachment to what is evil, and not to 
reprehend, were to approve it. From this charge at 

1 Lady Austen also had the honor of suggesting to Cow- 
per the subject of this work, which made him the most popu- 
lar poet of his age. " The Task " was begun early in the 
summer of 1783, but never mentioned to either Mr. Unwin 
or Mr. Newton until it was finished. 






WILLIAM COWPER. 127 

least I shall be clear, for I have neither tacitly nor 
expressly flattered either its characters or its customs. 
I have paid one, and only one compliment, which 
was so justly due that I did not know how to with- 
hold it, especially having so fair an occasion, — I 
forget myself, there is another in the first book to Mr. 
Throckmorton, — but the compliment I mean is to 
Mr. Smith. It is however so managed that nobody 
but himself can make the application, and you, to 
whom I disclose the secret ; a delicacy, on my part, 
which so much delicacy on his obliged me to the 
observance of. 

What there is of a religious cast in the volume I 
have thrown towards the end of it, for two reasons : 
first, that I might not revolt the reader at his en- 
trance ; and secondly, that my best impressions 
might be made last. Were I to write as many vol- 
umes as Lope de Vega, or Voltaire, not one of them 
would be without this tincture. If the world like it 
not, so much the worse for them, I make all the 
concessions I can, that I may please them, but I will 
not please them at the expense of conscience. 

My descriptions are all from Nature ; not one of 
them second-handed. My delineations of the heart 
are from my own experience : not one of them bor-i 
rowed from books, or in the least degree conjectural. 
In my numbers, which I have varied as much as I 
could (for blank verse without variety of numbers is 
no better than bladder and string), I have imitated 
nobody, though sometimes perhaps there may be an 
apparent resemblance ; because at the same time 
that I would not imitate, I have not affectedly differed. 



128 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

If the work cannot boast a regular plan (in which 
respect however I do not think it altogether indefen- 
sible), it may yet boast that the reflections are natu- 
rally suggested always by the preceding passage, and 
that except the fifth book, which is rather of a political 
aspect, the whole has one tendency, — to discounte- 
nance the modern enthusiasm after a London life, 
and to recommend rural ease and leisure as friendly 
to the cause of piety and virtue. 

If it pleases you, I shall be happy, and collect from 
your pleasure in it an omen of its general acceptance. 
Yours, my dear friend. 



XLIII. 

INTENTION OF COMPLETING POEM ON SCHOOL 
EDUCATION. 

To the Rev. William Unwin. 

October 20, 1 7 84 

My dear William, — Your letter has relieved me 
from some anxiety, and given me a good deal of posi- 
tive pleasure. I have faith in your judgment, and 
an implicit confidence in the sincerity of your appro- 
bation. The writing of so long a poem is a serious 
business ; and the author must know little of his own 
heart who does not in some degree suspect himself 
of partiality to his own production ; and who is he 
that would not be mortified by the discovery that he 
had written five thousand lines in vain ? The poem 
however which you have in hand will not of itself 



WILLIAM COWPER. 129 

make a volume so large as the last, or as a bookseller 
would wish. I say this because when I had sent 
Johnson five thousand verses, he applied for a thou- 
sand more. Two years since I began a piece 1 which 
grew to the length of two hundred, and there stopped. 
I have lately resumed it, and (I believe) shall finish 
it. But the subject is fruitful, and will not be com- 
prised in a smaller compass than seven or eight hun- 
dred verses. It turns on the question whether an 
education at school or at home be preferable, and I 
shall give the preference to the latter. I mean that 
it shall pursue the track of the former, — that is to 
say, that it shall visit Stock in its way to publication. 
My design also is to inscribe it to you. But you must 
see it first ; and if, after having seen it, you should 
have any objection, though it should be no bigger 
than the tittle of an i, I will deny myself that pleasure, 
and find no fault with your refusal. I have not been 
without thoughts of adding John Gilpin at the tail of 
all. He has made a good deal of noise in the world, 
and perhaps it may not be amiss to show that though 
I write generally with a serious intention, I know how 
to be occasionally merry. The Critical Reviewers 
charged me with an attempt at humor. John having 
been more celebrated upon the score of humor than 
most pieces that have appeared in modern days, may 
serve to exonerate me from the imputation • but in 
this article I am entirely under your judgment, and 
mean to be set down by it. All these together will 
make an octavo like the last. I should have told 
you that the piece which now employs me is in 

1 Tirocinium. See Poems. 
9 



130 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

rhyme. I do not intend to write any more blank. 
It is more difficult than rhyme, and not so amusing 
in the composition. 1 If, when you make the offer of 
my book to Johnson, he should stroke his chin, and 
look up to the ceiling, and cry "Humph!" an- 
ticipate him (I beseech you) at once, by saying 
" that you know I should be sorry that he should un- 
dertake for me to his own disadvantage, or that my 
volume should be in any degree pressed upon him. 
I make him the offer merely because I think he 
would have reason to complain of me, if I did not." 
But that punctilio once satisfied, it is a matter of 
indifference to me what publisher sends me forth. 
If Longman should have difficulties, which is the 
more probable, as I understand from you that he 
does not in these cases see with his own eyes, but 
will consult a brother poet, take no pains to conquer 
them. The idea of being hawked about, and espe- 
cially of your being the hawker, is insupportable. 
Nichols (I have heard) is the most learned printer 
of the present day. He may be a man of taste as 
well as of learning ; and I suppose that you would 
not want a gentleman usher to introduce you. He 
prints the Gentleman's Magazine, and may serve us, 
if the others should decline ; if not, give yourself no 
farther trouble about the matter. I may possibly 
envy authors who can afford to publish at their own 
expense, and in that case should write no more. But 
the mortification would not break my heart. 

3 He must have meant any original composition, since his 
translation of Homer into blank verse was already projected. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 131 

XLIV. 

A MOTTO FOR "TIROCINIUM" WANTED. 

To the Rev. William Bull} 

November 8, 1784. 

My good Friend, — " The Task," as you know, is 
gone to the press ; since it went I have been employed 
in writing another poem, which I am now transcrib- 
ing, and which in a short time I design shall follow. 
It is intituled "Tirocinium, or a Review of Schools." 
The business and purpose of it are, to censure the 
want of discipline and the scandalous inattention to 
morals that obtain in them, especially in the largest ; 
and to recommend private tuition as a mode of edu- 
cation preferable on all accounts ; to call upon fathers 
to become tutors, of their own sons, where that is 
practicable ; to take home a domestic tutor, where it 
is not ; and if neither can be done, to place them 
under the care of such a man as he to whom I am 
writing, — some rural parson, whose attention is lim- 
ited to a few. 

Now what want I? A motto. I have taken 
mottoes from Virgil and Horace till I begin to fear 
lest the world should discover (what indeed is the 

1 A dissenting minister, settled in the adjacent town of 
Newport Pagnell, who had been introduced to Cowper by 
Mr. Newton shortly before his departure from Olney, Mr. 
Bull at first visited Cowper out of compassion ; but the two 
men soon became attached on the basis of congenial tastes 
and cultivated minds, maintaining a close friendship always 
afterwards. 



132 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

case) that I have no other authors of the Roman 
class. Find me one therefore in any of your multi- 
tudinous volumes, no matter whether it be taken from 
Burgersdicius, Bogtrottius, or Puddengulpius : the 
more recondite the better, — the world will suppose 
that at least I am familiar with the author whom I 
quote, and though the supposition will be an erroneous 
one, it will do them no harm, and me some good. 

When you have found it, bring it with you, either 
to-morrow, Saturday, or Monday. One of those 
three days you and your son must dine with us. 
Choose, and let us know which you choose, in an an- 
swer by the bearer. 

Yours, with our joint love to Mrs. Bull. 



XLV. 

ON THE DEATH OF MR. HILL'S MOTHER. 
To Joseph Hill, Esq. 

November, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — To condole with you on the 
death of a mother aged eighty-seven would be absurd : 
rather therefore, as is reasonable, I congratulate you 
on the almost singular felicity of having enjoyed the 
company of so amiable and so near a relation so 
long. Your lot and mine in this respect have been 
very different, as, indeed, in almost every other. 
Your mother lived to see you rise, at least to see you 
comfortably established in the world ; mine, dying 
when I was six years old, did not live to see me sink 



WILLIAM COWPER. 133 

in it. You may remember with pleasure, while you 
live, a blessing vouchsafed to you so long; and I, 
while I live, must regret a comfort of which I was de- 
prived so early. I can truly say that not a week 
passes (perhaps I might with equal veracity say a 
day) in which I do not think of her. Such was the 
impression her tenderness made upon me, though the 
opportunity she had for showing it was so short. 
But the ways of God are equal ; and when I reflect 
on the pangs she would have suffered had she been a 
witness of all mine, I see more cause to rejoice than 
to mourn, that she was hidden in the grave so soon. 

We have, as you say, lost a lively and sensible 
neighbor in Lady Austen ; but we have been long ac- 
customed to a state of retirement within one degree 
of solitude, and being naturally lovers of still life, can 
relapse into our former duality without being unhappy 
at the change. To me^ indeed, a third is not neces- 
sary, while I can have the companion I have had 
these twenty years. 

I am gone to the press again ; a volume of mine will 
greet your hands some time either in the course of 
the winter or early in the spring. You will find it, 
perhaps, on the whole more entertaining than the for- 
mer, as it treats a greater variety of subjects, and 
those, at least the most, of a sublunary kind. It will 
consist of a poem, in six books, called "The Task." To 
which will be added another, which I finished yes- 
terday, called, I believe, "Tirocinium," on the subject 
of education. 

You perceive that I have taken your advice, and 
given the pen no rest. 



134 THE BEST LETTERS OF 



XLVI. 

DEFENDING THE TITLE OF 'THE TASK" AND OF ITS 
SEPARATE BOOKS 

To the Rev. John Newton. 

December 1 1, 1784. 
My dear Friend, — Having imitated no man, I 
may reasonably hope that I shall not incur the disad- 
vantage of a comparison with my betters. Milton's 
manner was peculiar ; so is Thomson's. He that 
should write like either of them would, in my judg- 
ment, deserve the name of a copyist, but not of a 
poet. A judicious and sensible reader therefore, 
like yourself, will not say that my manner is not good, 
because it does not resemble theirs, but will rather 
consider what it is in itself. Blank verse is suscepti- 
ble of a much greater diversification of manner, than 
verse in rhyme ; and why the modern writers of it 
have all thought proper to cast their numbers alike, 
I know not. Certainly it was not necessity that 
compelled them to it. I flatter myself, however, 
that I have avoided that sameness with others which 
would entitle me to nothing but a share in one com- 
mon oblivion with them all. It is possible that, as 
the reviewer of my former volume found cause to say 
that he knew not to what class of writers to refer me, 
the reviewer of this, whosoever he shall be, may see 
occasion to remark the same singularity. At any 
rate, though as little apt to be sanguine as most men, 
and more prone to fear and despond, than to overrate 



WILLIAM COWPEK. 135 

my own productions, I am persuaded that I shall not 
forfeit anything by this volume that I gained by the 
last. 

As to the title, I take it to be the best that is to be 
had. It is not possible that a book, including such 
a variety of subjects, and in which no particular one 
is predominant, should find a title adapted to them 
all. In such a case it seemed almost necessary to 
accommodate the name to the incident that gave birth 
to the poem ; x nor does it appear to me that because 
I performed more than my task, therefore the Task 
is not a suitable title. A house would still be a house, 
though the builder of it should make it ten times as 
big as he at first intended. I might indeed, follow- 
ing the example of the Sunday newsmonger, call it the 
Olio. But I should do myself wrong ; for though it 
have much variety, it has, I trust, no confusion. 

For the same reason none of the interior titles ap- 
ply themselves to the contents at large of that book 
to which they belong. They are, every one of them, 
taken either from the leading (I should say the in- 
troductory) passage of that particular book, or from 
that which makes the most conspicuous figure in it. 
Had I set off with a design to write upon a gridiron, 
and had I actually written near two hundred lines 
upon that utensil, as I have upon the Sofa, the Grid- 
iron should have been my title. But the Sofa being, 

1 Lady Austen had often urged him to try his powers in 
blank verse ; at last he promised to comply with her request, 
if she would give him a subject. " Oh," she replied, " you 
can never be in want of a subject; you can write upon 
any ; — write upon this Sofa ! " 



136 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

as I may say, the starting-post from which I addressed 
myself to the long race that I soon conceived a design 
to run, it acquired a just pre-eminence in my account, 
and was very worthily advanced to the titular honor 
it enjoys, its right being at least so far a good one, 
that no word in the language could pretend a better. 

The Time-piece appears to me (though by some 
accident the import of that title has escaped you) to 
have a degree of propriety beyond the most of them. 
The book to which it belongs is intended to strike 
the hour that gives notice of approaching judgment, 
and dealing pretty largely in the sig?is of the times, 
seems to be denominated, as it is, with a sufficient 
degree of accommodation to the subject. 

As to the word worm, it is the very appellation 
which Milton himself, in a certain passage of the 
Paradise Lost, gives to the serpent. Not having the 
book at hand, I cannot now refer to it ; but I am 
sure of the fact. I am mistaken, too, if Shakespeare's 
Cleopatra do not call the asp, by which she thought 
fit to destroy herself, by the same name. But not 
having read the play these five-and-twenty years, I 
will not affirm it. They are, however, without all 
doubt, convertible terms. A worm is a small serpent, 
and a serpent is a large worm. And when an epithet 
significant of the most terrible species of those crea- 
tures is adjoined, the idea is surely sufficiently ascer- 
tained. No animal of the vermicular or serpentine 
kind is crested, but the most formidable of all. 

We do not often see, or rather feel, so severe a 
frost before Christmas. Unexpected at least by me, 
it had like to have been too much for my greenhouse, 



WILLIAM COWPER. 137 

my myrtles having found themselves yesterday morn- 
ing in an atmosphere so cold that the mercury was 
fallen eight degrees below the freezing-point. 

We are truly sorry for Mrs. Newton's indisposition, 
and shall be glad to hear of her recovery. We are 
most liable to colds at this season, and at this season 
a cold is most difficult to cure. 

Be pleased to remember us to the young ladies, 
and to all under your roof and elsewhere who are 
mindful of us, and believe me 

Your affectionate. 

Your letters are gone to their address. The oys- 
ters were very good. 



XLVII. 

JOHN GILPIN. — VANITY OF POPULAR APPLAUSE. 

To the Rev. John Newton. 

April 22, 1785. 

My dear Friend, — When I received your account 
of the great celebrity of John Gilpin, I felt myself both 
flattered and grieved. Being man, and having in my 
composition all the ingredients of which other men 
are made, and vanity among the rest, it pleased me 
to reflect that I was on a sudden become so famous, 
and that all the world was busy inquiring after me ; 
but the next moment, recollecting my former self, 
and that thirteen years ago, as harmless as John's 
history is, I should not then have written it, my 
spirits sank, and I was ashamed of my success. 



138 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

Your letter was followed the next post by one from 
Mr. Unwin. You tell me that I am rivalled by Mrs. 
Bellamy ; x and he, that I have a competitor for fame, 
not less formidable, in the Learned Pig. Alas ! what 
is an author's popularity worth in a world that can 
suffer a prostitute on one side and a pig on the other 
to eclipse his brightest glories? I am therefore suf- 
ficiently humbled by these considerations ; and unless 
I should hereafter be ordained to engross the public 
attention by means more magnificent than a song, 
am persuaded that I shall suffer no real detriment by 
their applause. I have produced many things under 
the influence of despair which hope would not have 
permitted to spring. But if the soil of that melan- 
choly in which I have walked so long has thrown up 
here and there an unprofitable fungus, it is well, at 
least, that it is not chargeable with having brought 
forth poison. Like you, I see, or think I can see, 
that Gilpin may have his use. Causes, in appearance 
trivial, produce often the most beneficial conse- 
quences ; and perhaps my volumes may now travel 
to a distance which, if they had not been ushered 
into the world by that notable horseman, they would 
never have reached. 

I hope that neither the master of St. Paul's nor any 
other school, who may have commenced my admirer 
on John's account, will write to me for such a reason ; 
yet a little while, and if they have laughed with me, 
their note will be changed, and perhaps they will re- 
vile me. " Tirocinium " is no friend of theirs ; on the 

1 A celebrated actress, who wrote her memoirs, which 
were much read at that time. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 139 

contrary, if it have the effect I wish it to have, it will 
prove much their enemy, for it gives no quarter to 
modern pedagogues, but finding them all alike guilty 
of supineness and neglect in the affair of morals, 
condemns them, both schoolmasters and heads of 
colleges, without distinction. Our temper differs 
somewhat from that of the ancient Jews. They 
would neither dance nor weep. We indeed weep 
not if a man mourn unto us ; but I must needs say 
that if he pipe we seem disposed to dance with the 
greatest alacrity. I ought to tell you that this remark 
has a reference to John Gilpin ; otherwise, having been 
jumbled a little out of its place, you might be at a loss 
for the explication. 

Yours. 



XLVIII. 

REWARDS OF FAME 

To the Rev. William Unwin. 

April 30, 1785. 

My dear Friend, — I return you thanks for a 
letter so warm with the intelligence of the celebrity 
of John Gilpin. I little thought, when I mounted 
him upon my Pegasus, that he would become so 
famous. I have learned also, from Mr. Newton, 
that he is equally renowned in Scotland, and that a 
lady there had undertaken to write a second part, on 
the subject of Mrs. Gilpin's return to London, but 
not succeeding in it as she wished, she dropped it. 
He tells me, likewise, that the head master of St. 



140 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

Paul's school (who he is I know not) has conceived, 
in consequence of the entertainment that John has 
afforded him, a vehement desire to write to me. 
Let us hope he will alter his mind ; for should we 
even exchange civilities upon the occasion, " Tiroci- 
nium " will spoil all. The great estimation, however, 
in which this knight of the stone-bottles is held may 
turn out a circumstance propitious to the volume of 
which his history will make a part. Those events 
that prove the prelude to our greatest success are 
often apparently trivial in themselves, and such as 
seemed to promise nothing. The disappointment 
that Horace mentions is reversed. — We design a 
mug, and it proves a hogshead. It is a little hard 
that I alone should be unfurnished with a printed 
copy of this facetious story. When you visit Lon- 
don next, you must buy the most elegant impres- 
sion of it and bring it with you. I thank you also 
for writing to Johnson. I likewise wrote to him my- 
self. Your letter and mine together have operated to 
admiration. There needs nothing more but that the 
effect be lasting, and the whole will soon be printed. 
We now draw towards the middle of the fifth book of 
"The Task." The man, Johnson, is like unto some 
vicious horses that I have known. They would not 
budge till they were spurred, and when they were 
spurred they would kick. So did he. His temper 
was somewhat disconcerted; but his pace was quick- 
ened, and I was contented. 

I was very much pleased with the following sen- 
tence in Mr. Newton's last : " I am perfectly satis- 
fied with the propriety of your proceeding as to the 



WILLIAM COIVPER. 141 

publication.'* Now, therefor: 

ace more inquires aftd the 
he had disburthened himself of this acknowledgment, 
neither he nor I in any of om letters to each other 
ever mentioned. Some side-wind has wafted to him 
a report of those reasons t :h I j istified my con- 

duct. 1 I never made a secret of them, but both your 
mother and I have studiously deposited their, 
those who we thought were most likely to transmit 
them to him. They wanted only a hearing, which 

obtained, their solidity and cogency were such 
that they were sure to prevail. 

Yon mention Bensley. I formerly knew the man 
you mention, but his elder brother much better. We 
were schoolfellows, and he was one of a club of seven 

..inster men, to which I belonged, who dined 
together every Thursday. Should it please God to 
give me ability to perform the poet's part to 5 : m e 
purpose, many rhom I once called friends, but who 
have since treated me with a most magnificent indif- 
ference, will be ready to take me by the hand again, 
and some, whom I never held in that estimation, will, 
who was but a boy when I left London), 

of a connection with me which they never had. 
Had I the virtues and graces and accomplishments of 
Saint Paul himself. I ..right have them at Olne 
nobody would care a button about me, yourse. 
one or two more excepted. Fame begets favor ; 
and one talent if it be rubbed a little bright by use 

1 An allusion to Cowper's failure to confide in Newton 
while writing H The Task. — a circumstance which had . 
some c : : n ess : Ne « : : n 's part. 



142 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

and practice, will procure a man more friends than a 
thousand virtues. Dr. Johnson, I remember, in the 
life of one of our poets (I believe of Savage), says 
that he retired from the world, flattering himself that 
he should be regretted. But the world never missed 
him. I think his observation upon it is that the va- 
cancy made by the retreat of any individual is soon 
filled up ; that a man may always be obscure if he 
chooses to be so, and that he who neglects the world 
will be by the world neglected. 

Your mother and I walked yesterday in the Wil- 
derness. As we entered the gate, a glimpse of some- 
thing white contained in a little hole in the gate-post 
caught my eye. I looked again, and discovered a 
bird's nest with two tiny eggs in it. By and by they 
will be fledged and tailed, and get wing-feathers, and 
fly. My case is somewhat similar to that of the 
parent bird. My nest is in a little nook. Here I 
brood and hatch, and in due time my progeny takes 
wing and whistles. 

We wait for the time of your coming with pleasant 

expectation. 

Yours truly. 



XLIX. 

HIS OWN STATE OF MIND AND PROVIDENTIAL 
CONNECTION WITH MR. NEWTON. 

To the Rev. John Newton. 

May, 1785. 

My dear Friend, — ... I am sensible of the 
tenderness and affectionate kindness with which 



WILLIAM COWPER. 143 

you recollect our past intercourse, and express your 
hopes of my future restoration. I, too, within the 
last eight months have had my hopes, though they 
have been of short duration, cut off like the foam 
upon the waters. Some previous adjustments, indeed, 
are necessary, before a lasting expectation of comfort 
can take place in me. There are those persuasions 
in my mind which either entirely forbid the entrance 
of hope, or, if it enter, immediately eject it. They 
are incompatible with any such inmate, and must be 
turned out themselves before so desirable a guest can 
possibly have secured possession. This, you say, will 
be done. It may be, but it is not done yet ; nor has 
a single step in the course of God's dealings with me 
been taken towards it. If I mend, no creature ever 
mended so slowly that recovered at last. I am like 
a slug or snail, that has fallen into a deep well ; slug 
as he is, he performs his descent with an alacrity pro- 
portioned to his weight ; but he does not crawl up 
again quite so fast. Mine was a rapid plunge ; but 
my return to daylight, if I am indeed returning, is 
leisurely enough. — I wish you a swift progress, and 
a pleasant one, through the great subject that you 
have in hand ; and set that value upon your letters 
to which they are in themselves entitled, but which 
is certainly increased by that peculiar attention which 
the writer of them pays to me. Were I such as I 
once was, I should say that I have a claim upon 
your particular notice which nothing ought to super- 
sede. Most of your other connections you may 
fairly be said to have formed by your own act ; but 
your connection with me was the work of God. The 



144 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

kine that went up with the ark from Bethshemesh 
left what they loved behind them, in obedience to 
an impression which to them was perfectly dark and 
unintelligible. Your journey to Huntingdon was not 
less wonderful. He indeed, who sent you, knew well 
wherefore, but you knew not. That dispensation 
therefore would furnish me, as long as we can both 
remember it, with a plea for some distinction at your 
hands, had I occasion to use and urge it, which I 
have not. But I am altered since that time; and 
if your affection for me had ceased, you might very 
reasonably justify your change by mine. I can say 
nothing for myself at present ; but this I can venture 
to foretell, that should the restoration of which my 
friends assure me obtain, I shall undoubtedly love 
those who have continued to love me, even in a state 
of transformation from my former self, much more 
than ever. I doubt not that Nebuchadnezzar had 
friends in his prosperity ; all kings have many. But 
when his nails became like eagles' claws, and he ate 
grass like an ox, I suppose he had few to pity him. 

I am glad that Johnson is in fact a civiller man 
than I supposed him. My quarrel with him was not 
for any stricture of his upon my poetry (for he has 
made several, and many of them have been judicious, 
and my work will be the better for them), but for a 
certain rudeness with which he questioned my judg- 
ment of a writer of the last century, though I only 
mention the effect that his verses had upon me when 
a boy. There certainly was at the time a bustle in 
his temper, occasioned, I imagine, by my being a lit- 



WILLIAM COWPER. 145 

tie importunate with him to proceed. He has how- 
ever recovered himself since; and except that the 
press seems to have stood still this last week, has 
printed as fast as I could wish. Had he kept the 
same pace from the beginning, the book had been 
published, as indeed it ought to have been, three 
months ago. That evil report of his indolence 
reaches me from everybody that knows him, and is 
so general that had I a work or the publication of 
one in hand, the expenses of which I intended to 
take the hazard of upon myself, I should be very 
much afraid to employ him. He who will neglect 
himself cannot well be expected to attend to the in- 
terests of another. 



DESCRIPTION OF HIS SUMMER-HOUSE. 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. 

June 25, 1785. 
My dear Friend, — ■ I write in a nook that I call 
my Boudoir. It is a summer-house not much bigger 
than a sedan chair, the door of which opens into the 
garden, that is now crowded with pinks, roses, and 
honeysuckles, and the window into my neighbor's 
orchard. It formerly served an apothecary, now 
dead, as a smoking-room ; and under my feet is a 
trap-door, which once covered a hole in the ground, 
where he kept his bottles. At present, however, it 
is dedicated to sublimer uses. Having lined it with 



146 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

garden mats, and furnished it with a table and two 
chairs, here I write all that I write in summer- 
time, whether to my friends or to the public. It is 
secure from all noise, and refuge from all intrusion ; 
for intruders sometimes trouble me in the winter 
evenings at Olney. But (thanks to my Boudoir !) I 
can now hide myself from them. A poet's retreat is 
sacred. They acknowledge the truth of that proposi- 
tion, and never presume to violate it. 

The last sentence puts me in mind to tell you that 
1 have ordered my volume to your door. My book- 
seller is the most dilatory of all his fraternity, or you 
would have received it long since. It is more than 
a month since I returned him the last proof, and 
consequently since the printing was finished. I sent 
him the manuscript at the beginning of last Novem- 
ber, that he might publish while the town was full 5 — 
and he will hit the exact moment when it is entirely 
empty. Patience (you will perceive) is in no situa- 
tion exempted from the severest trials ; a remark that 
may serve to comfort you under the numberless trials 
of your own. 



LI. 

FAVORABLE RECEPTION OF HIS VOLUME BY THE 
PUBLIC. - NEGLECT OF HIS OLD FRIENDS. 

To the Rev. John Newton. 

July% 1785. 
My dear Friend, — You wrong your own judg- 
ment when you represent it as not to be trusted ; and 



WILLIAM COWPER. 147 

mine, if you suppose that I have that opinion of it. 
Had you disapproved, I should have been hurt and 
mortified. No man's disapprobation would have 
hurt me more. Your favorable sentiments of my book 
must consequently give me pleasure in the same pro- 
portion. By the post, last Sunday, I had a letter 
from Lord Dartmouth, in which he thanked me for 
my volume, of which he had read only a part. Of that 
part, however, he expresses himself in terms with 
which my authorship has abundant cause to be satis- 
fied ; and adds that the specimen has made him 
impatient for the whole. I have likewise received a 
letter from a judicious friend of mine in London, and 
a man of fine taste, unknown to you, who speaks of 
it in the same language. Fortified by these cordials, 
I feel myself qualified to face the world without much 
anxiety, and delivered in a great measure from those 
fears which I suppose all men feel upon the like 
occasion. 

My first volume I sent, as you may remember, to the 
Lord Chancellor, accompanied by a friendly but 
respectful epistle. His Lordship, however, thought 
it not worth his while to return me any answer, or to 
take the least notice of my present, I sent it also to 
Colman, manager of the Haymarket Theatre, with 
whom I once was intimate. He likewise proved too 
great a man to recollect me ; and though he has 
published since, did not account it necessary to re- 
turn the compliment. I have allowed myself to be 
a little pleased with an opportunity to show them 
that I resent their treatment of me, and have sent 
this book to neither of them. They, indeed, are the 



148 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

former friends to whom I particularly allude in my 
epistle to Mr. Hill ; and it is possible that they may 
take to themselves a censure that they so well deserve. 
If not, it matters not ; for I shall never have any 
communication with them hereafter. 

If Mr. Bates has found it difficult to furnish you 
with a motto to your volumes, I have no reason to 
imagine that I shall do it easily. I shall not leave 
my books unransacked ; but there is something so 
new and peculiar in the occasion that suggested your 
subject, that I question whether, in all the classics, 
can be found a sentence suited to it. Our sins and 
follies, in this country, assume a shape that Heathen 
writers had never any opportunity to notice. They^ 
deified the dead, indeed, but not in the Temple of 
Jupiter. The new-made god had an altar of his own ; 
and they conducted the ceremony without sacrilege 
or confusion. It is possible, however, and I think 
barely so, that somewhat may occur susceptible of 
accommodation to your purpose ; and if it should, I 
shall be happy to serve you with it. 

I told you, I believe, that the Spinney has been 
cut down ; and though it may seem sufficient to have 
mentioned such an occurrence once, I cannot help 
recurring to the melancholy theme. Last night, at near 
nine o'clock, we entered it for the first time this sum- 
mer. We had not walked many yards in it, before 
we perceived that this pleasant retreat is destined 
never to be a pleasant retreat again. In one more 
year the whole will be a thicket. That which was 
once the serpentine walk is now in a state of trans- 
formation, and is already become as woody as the 



WILLIAM COWPER. 149 

rest. Poplars and elms without number are spring- 
ing in the turf. They are now as high as the knee. 
Before the summer is ended, they will be twice as 
high ; and the growth of another season will make 
them trees. It will then be impossible for any but 
a sportsman and his dog to penetrate it. The desola- 
tion of the whole scene is such that it sunk our spirits. 
The ponds are dry. The circular one in front of 
the hermitage is filled with flags and rushes ; so that, 
if it contains any water, not a drop is visible. The 
weeping-willow at the side of it, the only ornamental 
plant that has escaped the axe, is dead. The ivy 
and the moss, with which the hermitage was lined, 
are torn away ; and the very mats that covered the 
benches have been stripped off, rent in tatters, and 
trodden under foot. So farewell, Spinney ; I have 
promised myself that I will never enter it again. We 
have both prayed in it, — you for me, and I for you. 
But it is desecrated from this time forth, and the 
voice of prayer will be heard in it no more. The fate 
of it in this respect, however deplorable, is not pecu- 
liar. The spot where Jacob anointed his pillar, and 
(which is more apposite) the spot once honored with 
the presence of Him who dwelt in the bush, have 
long since suffered similar disgrace, and are become 
common ground. 

There is great severity in the application of the text 
you mention, — I am their music. But it is not the 
worse for that. We both approve it highly. The 
other in Ezekiel does not seem quite so pat. The 
prophet complains that his word was to the people 
like a pleasant song, heard with delight but soon for- 



150 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

gotten. At the commemoration 1 I suppose that the 
word is nothing, but the music all in all. The Bible, 
however, will abundantly supply you with applicable 
passages. All passages, indeed, that animadvert 
upon the profanation of God's house and worship, 
seem to present themselves upon the occasion. 

We have returned thanks to Mr. Wm. Unwin for 
a turbot and lobster, and he disclaims all right to the 
acknowledgment. Is it due to you and Mrs. New- 
ton ? If it be, accept a grateful one, accept likewise 
our love and best wishes ; and believe me, my dear 
friend, with warm and true affection, 
Yours. 



LIL 

SELF-ABASEMENT. — "THE TASK" NOT ADVERTISED. 

To the Rev. John Newton. 

August 6, 17S5. 
My dear Friend, — I found your account of what 
you experienced in your state of maiden authorship 
very entertaining because very natural. I suppose 
that no man ever made his first sally from the press 
without a conviction that all eyes and ears would be 
engaged to attend him ; at least, without a thousand 
anxieties lest they should not. But, however arduous 
and interesting such an enterprise may be in the first 
instance, it seems to me that our feelings on the occa- 
sion soon become obtuse. I can answer, at "least, for 

1 Commemoration of Handel in Westminster Abbey. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 151 

one. Mine are by no means what they were when I 
published my first volume. I am even so indifferent 
to the matter that I can truly assert myself guiltless 
of the very idea of my book sometimes whole days 
together. God knows that, my mind having been 
occupied more than twelve years in the contempla- 
tion of the most tremendous subjects, the world and 
its opinion of what I write is become as unimportant 
to me as the whistling of a bird in a bush. Despair 
made amusement necessary, and I found poetry the 
most agreeable amusement. Had I not endeavored 
to perform my best, it would not have amused me at 
all. The mere blotting of so much paper would have 
been but indifferent sport. God gave me grace also 
to wish that I might not write in vain. Accordingly, 
I have mingled much truth with much trifle, and 
such truths as deserved, at least, to be clad as well 
and as handsomely as I could clothe them. If the 
world approve me not, so much the worse for them, 
but not for me. I have only endeavored to serve 
them, and the loss will be their own. And as to their 
commendations, if I should chance to win them, I 
feel myself equally invulnerable there. The view that 
I have had of myself for many years has been so truly 
humiliating that I think the praises of all mankind 
could not hurt me. God knows that I speak my 
present sense of the matter, at least most truly, when 
I say that the admiration of creatures like myself seems 
to me a weapon the least dangerous that my worst 
enemy could employ against me. I am fortified 
against it by such solidity of real self-abasement, that 
I deceive myself most egregiously if I do not heartily 



152 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

despise it. Praise belongeth to God ; and I seem to 
myself to covet it no more than I covet divine honors. 
Could I assuredly hope that God would at last deliver 
me, I should have reason to thank him for all that I 
have suffered, were it only for the sake of this single 
fruit of my affliction, — that it has taught me how 
much more contemptible I am in myself than I ever 
before suspected, and has reduced my former share 
of self-knowledge (of which at that time I had a tol- 
erable good opinion) to a mere nullity, in comparison 
with what I have acquired since. Self is a subject of 
inscrutable misery and mischief, and can never be 
studied to so much advantage as in the dark ; for as 
the bright beams of the sun seem to impart a beauty 
to the foulest objects, and can make even a dunghill 
smile, so the light of God's countenance, vouchsafed 
to a fallen creature, so sweetens him and softens him 
for the time, that he seems, both to others and to 
himself, to have nothing savage or sordid about him. 
But the heart is a nest of serpents, and will be such 
while it continues to beat. If God cover the mouth 
of that nest with his hand, they are hushed and snug ; 
but if he withdraw his hand, the whole family lift up 
their heads and hiss, and are as active and venomous 
as ever. This I always professed to believe from the 
time that I had embraced the truth, but never knew 
it as I know it now. To what end I have been made 
to know it as I do, whether for the benefit of others 
or for my own, or for both, or for neither, will appear 
hereafter. 

What I have written leads me naturally to the men- 
tion of a matter that I had forgot. I should blame no- 



I 



WILLIAM COWPER. 153 

body, not even my intimate friends, and those who 
have the most favorable opinion of me, were they to 
charge the publication of ; ' John Gilpin," at the end of 
so much solemn and serious truth, to the score of the 
author's vanity ; and to suspect that, however sober I 
may be upon proper occasions, I have yet that itch 
for popularity that would not suffer me to sink my 
title to a jest that had been so successful. But the 
case is not such. When I sent the copy of " The 
Task " to Johnson, I desired, indeed, Mr. Unwin to 
ask him the question, whether or not he would choose 
to make it a part of the volume ? This I did merely 
with a view to promote the sale of it. Johnson an- 
swered, " By all means." Some months afterward, 
he enclosed a note to me in one of my packets, in 
which he expressed a change of mind, alleging that 
to print " John Gilpin " would only be to print what 
had been hackneyed in every magazine, in every 
shop, and at the corner of every street. I answered, 
that I desired to be entirely governed by his opinion ; 
and that if he chose to waive it, I should be better 
pleased with the omission. Nothing more passed 
between us upon the subject, and I concluded that I 
should never have the immortal honor of being gen- 
erally known as the author of "John Gilpin." In the 
last packet, however, down came John, very fairly 
printed, and equipped for public appearance. The 
business having taken this turn, I concluded that 
Johnson had adopted my original thought, that it 
might prove advantageous to the sale ; and as he 
had had the trouble and expense of printing it, I 
corrected the copy and let it pass. Perhaps, how- 



154 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

ever, neither the book nor the writer may be made 
much more famous by John's good company, than 
they would have been without it ; for the volume has 
never yet been advertised, nor can I learn that John- 
son intends it. He fears the expense, and the con- 
sequence must be prejudicial. Many who would 
purchase will remain uninformed ; but I am perfectly 
content. 

My compliment to Mr. Throckmorton was printed 
' before he had cut down the Spinney. He indeed 
has not cut it down, but Mr. Morley, the tenant, — 
with the owner's consent, however, no doubt. My 
poetical civilities, however, were due to that gentle- 
man for more solid advantages conferred upon me 
in prose ; without any solicitation on our part, or even 
a hint that we wished it (it was indeed a favor that 
we could not have aspired to), he made us a present 
of a key of his kitchen garden, and of the fruit of it 
whenever we pleased, That key, I believe, was 
never given to any other person ; nor is it likely that 
they should give it to many, for it is their favorite 
walk, and was the only one in which they could be 
secure from all interruption. They seem, however, 
to have left the country, and it is possible that he 
may never know that my Muse has noticed him. 

I have considered your motto, and like the pur- 
port of it ; but the best, because the most laconic 
manner of it seems to be this, — 

Cum talis sis, sis noster ; 
2itina.7ii being, in my account of it, unnecessary. 

Mrs. Newton has our hearty thanks for the turbot 
and lobster, which were excellent. To her and to 



WILLIAM COWPER. 155 

the young ladies we beg to be affectionately remem- 
bered. 

Three weeks since, Mr. Unwin and his late ward, 
Miss Shuttleworth, and John, called on us in their 
way from the north, having made an excursion so far 
as to Dumfries. Mr. Unwin desired me to say that 
though he had been often in town since he had the 
pleasure of seeing you last, he had always gone 
thither on business, and making a short stay, had not 
been able to find an opportunity to pay his respects 
to you again. 

Yours, my dear friend, most truly. 



Lin. 

REASONS FOR PUBLISHING "THE EPISTLE TO 
JOSEPH HILL." 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. 

October 1 1, 1785. 

My dear Sir, - — You began your letter with an 
apology for long silence, and it is now incumbent 
upon me to do the same ; and the rather, as your 
kind invitation to Wargrave entitled you to a speedier 
answer. The truth is, that I am become, if not a 
man of business, yet a busy man, and have been 
engaged almost this twelvemonth in a work that 
will allow of no long interruption. On this account 
it was impossible for me to accept your obliging 
summons ; and having only to tell you that I could 
not, it appeared to me as a matter of no great mo- 



156 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

ment, whether you received that intelligence soon 
or late. 

You do me justice when you ascribe my printed 
epistle to you, to my friendship for you ; though, in 
fact, it was equally owing to the opinion that 1 have 
of yours for me. Having, in one part or other of 
my two volumes, distinguished by name the majority 
of those few for whom I entertain a friendship, it 
seemed to me that it would be unjustifiable negli- 
gence to omit yourself : and if I took that step with- 
out communicating to you my intention, it was only 
to gratify myself the more, with the hope of surprising 
you agreeably* Poets are dangerous persons to be ac- 
quainted with, especially if a man have that in his 
character that promises to shine in verse. To that 
very circumstance it is owing, that you are now figur- 
ing away in mine. For notwithstanding what you 
say on the subject of honesty and friendship, that 
they are not splendid enough for public celebration, 
I must still think of them as I did before, — that 
there are no qualities of the mind and heart that can 
deserve it better. I can, at least for my own part, 
look round about upon the generality, and while I see 
them deficient in those grand requisites of a respec- 
table character, am not able to discover that they 
possess any other, of value enough to atone for the 
want of them. 

I beg that you will present my respects to Mrs. 
Hill, and believe me 

Ever affectionately yours. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 157 

LIV. 

REVIVAL OF AN OLD FRIENDSHIP. 

To Lady Hesketh} 

October 12, 1785, 

My dear Cousin, — It is no new thing with you to 
give pleasure ; but I will venture to say that you do 
not often give more than you gave me this morning. 
When I came down to breakfast, and found upon 
the table a letter franked by my uncle/ 2 and when 
opening that frank I found that it contained a letter 
from you, I said within myself, " This is just as it 
should be. We are all grown young again, and the 
days that I thought I should see no more are actually 
returned." You perceive, therefore, that you judged 
well when you conjectured that a line from you 
would not be disagreeable to me. It could not be 
otherwise than, as in fact it proved, a most agreeable 
surprise, for I can truly boast of an affection for you 
that neither years nor interrupted intercourse have at 
all abated. I need only recollect how much I valued 
you once, and with how much cause, immediately to 

1 Correspondence with Lady Hesketh had now been discon- 
tinued for eighteen years, Cowper's last letter to her (January 
30, 1767) having been written in a strain of melancholy piet- 
ism in which she thought it dangerous for him to indulge. 
Now that she saw, by " John Gilpin " and " The Task," that 
he could once more indulge in the playful temper of his earlier 
years, she wrote to him in a way that showed that many years 
of absence and broken intercourse had made no change in 
her feelings towards him. 

2 Ashley Cowper, Lady Hesketh's father. 



158 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

feel a revival of the same value ; if that can be said 
to revive, which at the most has only been dormant 
for want of employment, but I slander it when I say 
that it has slept. A thousand times have I recollected 
a thousand scenes, in which our two selves have 
formed the whole of the drama with the greatest 
pleasure ; at times, too, when I had no reason to 
suppose that I should ever hear from you again. I 
have laughed with you at the Arabian Nights Enter- 
tainment, which afforded us, as you well know, a fund 
of merriment that deserves never to be forgot. I 
have walked with you to Netley Abbey, and have 
scrambled with you over hedges in every direction, 
and many other feats we have performed together, upon 
the field of my remembrance, and all within these few 
years. Should I say within this twelvemonth, I should 
not transgress the truth. The hours that I have spent 
with you were among the pleasantest of my former 
days, and are therefore chronicled in my mind so 
deeply as to feel no erasure. Neither do I forget my 
poor friend, Sir Thomas. I should remember him 
indeed, at any rate, on account of his personal kind- 
ness to myself; but the last testimony that he gave 
of his regard for you endears him to me still more. 
With his uncommon understanding (for with many 
peculiarities he had more sense than any of his ac- 
quaintance) and with his generous sensibilities, it 
was hardly possible that he should not distinguish 
you as he has done. As it was the last, so it was 
the best proof that he could give, of a judgment that 
never deceived him, when he would allow himself 
leisure to consult it. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 159 

You say that you have often heard of me : that 
puzzles me. I cannot imagine from what quarter, 
but it is no matter. I must tell you, however, my 
cousin, that your information has been a little defec- 
tive. That I am happy in my situation is true ; I 
live, and have lived these twenty years, with Mrs. 
Unwin, to whose affectionate care of me during the 
far greater part of that time it is, under Providence, 
owing that I live at all. But I do not account myself 
happy in having been for thirteen of those years in a 
state of mind that has made all that care and attention 
necessary ; an attention and a care that have injured 
her health, and which, had she not been uncommonly 
supported, must have brought her to the grave. 
But I will pass to another subject ; it would be cruel 
to particularize only to give pain, neither would I by 
any means give a sable hue to the first letter of a cor- 
respondence so unexpectedly renewed. 

I am delighted with what you tell me of my uncle's 
good health. To enjoy any measure of cheerfulness 
at so late a day is much ; but to have that late day 
enlivened with the vivacity of youth is much more, 
and in these postdiluvian times a rarity indeed. 
Happy, for the most part, are parents who have 
daughters. Daughters are not apt to outlive their 
natural affections, which a son has generally survived, 
even before his boyish years are expired. I rejoice 
particularly in my uncle's felicity, who has three fe- 
male descendants from his little person, who leave 
him nothing to wish for upon that head. 

My dear cousin, dejection of spirits, which I sup- 
pose may have prevented many a man from be- 



160 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

coming an author, made me one. I find constant 
employment necessary, and therefore take care to be 
constantly employed. Manual occupations do not 
engage the mind sufficiently, as I know by experi- 
ence, having tried many. But composition, espe- 
cially of verse, absorbs it wholly. I write therefore, 
generally, three hours in a morning, and in an even- 
ing I transcribe. I read also, but less than I write, 
for I must have bodily exercise, and therefore never 
pass a day without it. 

You ask me where I have been this summer. I 
answer, at Olney. Should you ask me where I spent 
the last seventeen summers, I should still answer, at 
Olney. Ay, and the winters also : I have seldom left 
it, and except when I attended my brother in his last 
illness, never, I believe, a fortnight together. 

Adieu, my beloved cousin. I shall not always be 
thus nimble in reply, but shall always have great 
pleasure in answering you when I can. 

Yours, my dear friend and cousin. 



LV. 

CONCERNING MONEY AND FRIENDSHIP. 

To Lady Hesketh. 

Olney, November 9, 1785. 
My dearest Cousin, — Whose last most affection- 
ate letter has run in my head ever since I received it, 
and which I now sit down to answer two days sooner 
than the post will serve me ; I thank you for it, and 



WILLIAM COWPER. 161 

with a warmth for which I am sure you will give me 
credit, though I do not spend many words in describ- 
ing it. I do not seek new friends, not being alto- 
gether sure that I should find them, but have un- 
speakable pleasure in being still beloved by an old 
one. I hope that now our correspondence has suf- 
fered its last interruption, and that we shall go down 
together to the grave, chatting and chirping as mer- 
rily as such a scene of things as this will permit. 

I am happy that my poems have pleased you. 
My volume has afforded me no such pleasure at any 
time, either while I was writing it or since its publi- 
cation, as I have derived from yours and my uncle's 
opinion of it. I make certain allowances for partial- 
ity, and for that peculiar quickness of taste with which 
you both relish what you like, and after all drawbacks 
upon those accounts duly made, find myself rich in 
the measure of your approbation that still remains. 
But above all, I honor John Gilpin, since it was he 
who first encouraged you to write. I made him on 
purpose to laugh at, and he served his purpose well ; 
but I am now in debt to him for a more valuable ac- 
quisition than all the laughter in the world amounts 
to," — the recovery of my intercourse with you, which 
is to me inestimable. My benevolent and generous 
cousin, when I was once asked if I wanted anything, 
and given delicately to understand that the inquirer 
was ready to supply all my occasions, I thankfully 
and civilly, but positively, declined the favor. I 
neither suffer, nor have suffered, any such inconve- 
niences as I had not much rather endure than come 
under obligations of that sort to a person compara- 



162 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

tively with yourself a stranger to me. But to you I 
answer otherwise. I know you thoroughly, and the 
liberality of your disposition, and have that consum- 
mate confidence in the sincerity of your wish to serve 
me that delivers me from all awkward constraint, and 
from all fear of trespassing by acceptance. To you, 
therefore, I reply, Yes. Whensoever, and whatso- 
ever, and in what manner-soever you please ; and add 
moreover, that my affection for the giver is such as 
will increase to me tenfold the satisfaction that I 
shall have in receiving. It is necessary, however, 
that I should let you a little into the state of my 
finances, that you may not suppose them more nar- 
rowly circumscribed than they are. Since Mrs. Un- 
win and I have lived at Olney, we have had but one 
purse, although during the whole of that time, till 
lately, her income was nearly double mine. Her rev- 
enues indeed are now in some measure reduced, and 
do not much exceed my own ; the worst consequence 
of this is that we are forced to deny ourselves some 
things which hitherto we have been better able to 
afford ; but they are such things as neither life, nor 
the well-being of life, depend upon. My own income 
has been better than it is ; but when it was best, it 
would not have enabled me to live as my connec- 
tions demanded that I should, had it not been com- 
bined with a better than itself, at least at this end of 
the kingdom. Of this I had full proof during three 
months that I spent in lodgings at Huntingdon, in 
which time, by the help of good management and a 
clear notion of economical matters, I contrived to 
spend the income of a twelvemonth. Now, my be- 



WILLIAM COWPER. 



163 



loved cousin, you are in possession of the whole case as 
it stands. Strain no points to your own inconvenience 
or hurt, for there is no need of it, but indulge your- 
self in communicating (no matter what) that you can 
spare without missing it, since by so doing you will 
be sure to add to the comforts of my life one of the 
sweetest that I can enjoy, — a token and proof of 
your affection. 

I cannot believe but that I should know you, not- 
withstanding all that time may have done : there is 
not a feature of your face, could I meet it upon the 
road, by itself, that I should not instantly recollect. 
I should say, that is my cousin's nose, or those are 
her lips and her chin, and no woman upon earth can 
claim them but herself. As for me, I am a very 
smart youth of my years ; I am not indeed grown 
gray so much as I am grown bald. No matter ; 
there was more hair in the world than ever had the 
honor to belong to me ; accordingly, having found 
just enough to curl a little at my ears, and to inter- 
mix with a little of my own, that still hangs behind, I 
appear, if you see me in an afternoon, to have a very 
decent headdress, not easily distinguished from my 
natural growth, which, being worn with a small bag, 
and a black ribbon about my neck, continues to me 
the charms of my youth even on the verge of age. 
Away with the fear of writing too often ! 

P. S. That the view I give you of myself may 
be complete, I add the two following items : That 
I am in debt to nobody, and that I grow fat. 



164 THE BEST LETTERS OF 



LVI. 

LADY HESKETH'S BOUNTY. — TRANSLATION OF HOMER 
NO LONGER A SECRET. 

To Lady Hesketh. 

My dearest Cousin, — I am glad that I always 
loved you as I did. It releases me from any occa- 
sion to suspect that my present affection for you is 
indebted for its existence to any selfish considera- 
tions. No, I am sure I love you disinterestedly and 
for your own sake, because I never thought of you 
with any other sensations than those of the truest 
affection, even while I was under the influence of a 
persuasion that I should never hear from you again. 
But with my present feelings, superadded to those 
that I always had for you, I find it no easy matter to 
do justice to my sensations. I perceive myself in a 
state of mind similar to that of the traveller described 
in Pope's Messiah, who, as he passes through a sandy 
desert, starts at the sudden and unexpected sound of 
a waterfall. You have placed me in a situation new 
to me, and in which I feel myself somewhat puzzled 
how I ought to behave. At the same time that I 
would not grieve you by putting a check upon your 
bounty, I would be as careful not to abuse it as if I 
were a miser, and the question not about your money 
but my own. 

Although I do not suspect that a secret to you, my 
cousin, is any burden, yet having maturely considered 



WILLIAM COWPER. 165 

that point since I wrote my last, I feel myself alto- 
gether disposed to release you from the injunction to 
that effect under which I laid you. I have now made 
such a progress in my translation that I need neither 
fear that I shall stop short of the end, nor that any 
rider of Pegasus should overtake me. Therefore, if 
at any time it should fall fairly in your way, or you 
should feel yourself invited to say I am so occupied, 
you have my poetship's free permission. Dr. Johnson 
read and recommended my first volume. 



LVII. 

HAPPINESS IN THE RENEWAL OF AN OLD FRIEND- 
SHIP.— POLITICS. —ON THE KING'S STAG-HUNTS. 

To Lady Hcsketh. 

Olney, November 23, 1785. 
My dear Cousin, — I am obliged to you for hav- 
ing allotted your morning to me, and not less obliged 
to you for writing, when the opportunity you had 
set apart for that purpose had been almost entirely 
consumed by others. It cost me some little delib- 
eration to decide whether I should answer by this 
night's post, or whether I should wait till I could tell 
you that the wine is arrived ; but to say the truth, I 
had it not in my power to wait ; so I cut the matter 
short at once by determining to believe that the fre- 
quency of my letters will not make them a burden to 
you. I did not know or suspect that Providence had 



1 66 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

so much good in store for me in the present life as I 
promise myself now from the renewal of our inti- 
macy. But it seems that my calculations upon that 
subject were erroneous ; it is renewed ; and I look 
forward to the permanence of it with the pleasantest 
expectations, and resolve to do all I can to deserve 
your punctual correspondence, by being as punctual 
as possible myself. How easily are resolutions made 
and kept, when the whole heart is in them I 

Fifty things present themselves to me that I want 
to say ; and while each pleads for the preference, they 
all together so distract my choice that I hardly know 
with which to begin. 

I thank you, my dearest cousin, for your medical 
advice. I have tried other wines, but never could 
meet with any that I could drink constantly, but port, 
without being the worse for it. And with respect to 
the quantity, that is a point that habit so effectually 
decides that after many years' practice, a limitation 
to a certain stint becomes in a manner necessary. 
When I have drunk what I always drink, I can feel 
that more would disgust me. I have, indeed, a most 
troublesome stomach, and which does not improve 
as I grow older. I have eaten nothing for some time 
past that it has not quarrelled with, from my bread 
and butter in the morning down to the egg that I 
generally make my supper. It constrains me to deny 
myself some things that I am fond of, and some that 
are in a degree necessary to health, or that seem to 
be so. Green tea I have not touched these twenty 
years, or only to be poisoned by it ; but bohea, which 
never hurts me, is so good a substitute that I am 



WILLIAM COW PER. 167 

perfectly well satisfied upon that head. Less easy, 
however, do I find it to reconcile myself to an almost 
total abstinence from all vegetables, which yet I have 
been obliged to practise for some time. But enough, 
and too much by half, upon a subject that shall never 
again engross so large a portion of the paper that I 
devote to you. 

You supposed in a former letter that Mrs. 
Cowper, of Devonshire Street, has written to me 
since I saw the rest of the family. Not so, my dear. 
Whatever intelligence she gave you concerning me, 
she had it from the Newtons, whom she visits. 
Yourself were the last of my female relations that I 
saw before I went to St. Alban's. You do not for- 
get, I dare say, that you and Sir Thomas called 
upon me in my chamber a very few days before I 
took leave of London ; then it was that I saw you 
last, and then it was that I said in my heart, upon 
your going out at the door, Farewell ! there will be 
no more intercourse between us forever. But Prov- 
idence has ordered otherwise, and I cannot help say- 
ing once more how sincerely I rejoice that he has. 
It were pity that, while the same world holds us, we, 
who were in a manner brought up together, should 
not love each other to the last. We do, however, 
and we do so in spite of a long separation ; and 
although that separation should be for life, yet will 
we love each other. 

I intended to have been very merry when I began, 
but I stumbled unawares upon a subject that made 
me otherwise ; but if I have been a little sad, yet not 
disagreeably so to myself. That you admire Mr. 



1 68 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

Pitt, my dear, may be, for aught I know, as you say 
it is, a very shining part of your character; but a 
more illustrious part of it, in my account, is your 
kindness and affection to me. Sweet self, you know, 
will always claim a right to be first considered, — a claim 
which few people are much given to dispute. Upon 
the subject of politics you may make me just what 
you please. I am perfectly prepared to adopt all 
your opinions ; for living when and as I do, it is im- 
possible that I should have any decided ones of my 
own. My mind, therefore, is as much a carte blanche 
in this particular as you can wish. Write upon it 
what you please. I know well that I honored his 
father, and that I have cut capers before now for 
victories obtained under his auspices ; and although 
capering opportunities have become scarce since he 
died, yet I am equally ready even now to caper for 
his son when a reasonable occasion should offer. As 
to the King, I love and honor him upon a hundred 
accounts ; and have, indeed, but one quarrel with 
him in the world, which is, that after having hunted 
a noble and beautiful animal till he takes it perhaps 
at last in a lady's parlor, he in a few days turns it up 
and hunts it again. When stags are followed by such 
people as generally follow them, it is very well : their 
pursuers are men who do not pretend to much hu- 
manity, and when they discover none, they are per- 
fectly consistent with themselves ; but I have a far 
different opinion of the character of our King : he is 
a merciful man, and should therefore be more merci- 
ful to his beast. 

I admire and applaud your forgery ; but your last 



WILLIAM COWPER. 169 

was performed in such haste that the date did not 
much resemble the direction. I imagine, however, 
that, all things considered, the Post Office, should 
they detect your contrivance, would not be much dis- 
posed to take notice of it. It is a common practice, 
but seldom so justifiably practised as by you. 1 

My dearest cousin, if you give me wine, there is 
no good reason wherefore you should also be at the 
expense of bottles, of which we could not possibly 
make any other use than to furnish the rack with 
them, where the cats will break them. I purpose, 
therefore, to return the hamper charged with the 
same number that it brings, by your permission. 
The difference will be sixteen shillings in the price 
of the wine. 

Our post comes in on Wednesdays, Fridays, and 
Sundays ; on the two former days about breakfast 
time, and on Sundays, at this season at least, in the 
afternoon. Adieu, my dear ; I am never happier, I 
think, than when I am reading your letters, or an- 
swering them. 

Ever yours. 

1 The letter, no doubt, was franked in her father's name. 



170 THE BEST LETTERS OF 



LVIII. 

REASONS FOR TRANSLATING HOMER. — HOPE OF 
BETTER DAYS. 

To the Rev. John Newton. 

December 3, 1785. 

My dear Friend, — I am glad to hear that there 
is such a demand for your last Narrative. If I may 
judge of their general utility by the effect that they 
have heretofore had upon me, there are few things 
more edifying than death-bed memoirs. They inter- 
est every reader, because they speak of a period at 
which all must arrive, and afford a solid ground of 
encouragement to survivors to expect the same or 
similar support and comfort when it shall be their 
turn to die. 

I also am employed in writing narrative, but not 
so useful. Employment, however, and with the pen, 
is, through habit, become essential to my well-being j 
and to produce always original poems, especially of 
considerable length, is not so easy. For some weeks 
after I had finished " The Task," and sent away the 
last sheet corrected, I was through necessity idle, and 
suffered not a little in my spirits for being so. One 
day, being in such distress of mind as was hardly sup- 
portable, I took up the Iliad ; and merely to divert 
attention, and with no more preconception of what I 
was then entering upon than I have at this moment 
of what I shall be doing this day twenty years hence, 
translated the twelve first lines of it. The same 



WILLIAM COWPER. 171 

necessity pressing me again, I had recourse to the 
same expedient, and translated more. Every day 
bringing its occasion for employment with it, every 
day consequently added something to the work ; till 
at last I began to reflect thus ; The Iliad and 
Odyssey together consist of about forty thousand 
verses. To translate these forty thousand verses 
will furnish me with occupation for a considerable 
time. I have already made some progress, and I 
find it a most agreeable amusement. Homer, in 
point of purity, is a most blameless writer ; and 
though he was not an enlightened man, has inter- 
spersed many great and valuable truths throughout 
both his poems. In short, he is in all respects a most 
venerable old gentleman, by an acquaintance with 
whom no man can disgrace himself. The literati are 
all agreed, to a man, that although Pope lias given us 
two pretty poems under Homer's titles, there is not to 
be found in them the least portion of Homer's spirit, 
nor the least resemblance of his manner. I will try, 
therefore, whether I cannot copy him somewhat more 
happily myself. I have at least the advantage of 
Pope's faults and failings, which, like so many buoys 
upon a dangerous coast, will serve me to steer by, 
and will make my chance for success more probable. 
These and many other considerations, but especially 
a mind that abhorred a vacuum as its chief bane, im- 
pelled me so effectually to the work that ere long I 
mean to publish proposals for a subscription to it, hav- 
ing advanced so far as to be warranted in doing so. I 
have connections, and no few such, by means of which 
I have the utmost reason to expect that a brisk circula- 



172 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

tion may be procured ; and if it should prove a pro- 
fitable enterprise, the profit will not accrue to a man 
who may be said not to want it. It is a business 
such as it will not, indeed, lie much in your way to 
promote ; but among your numerous connections it 
is possible that you may know some who would suffi- 
ciently interest themselves in such a work to be not 
unwilling to subscribe to it. I do not mean — far be 
it from me — to put you upon making hazardous 
applications where you might possibly incur a refu- 
sal that would give you, though but a moment's, pain. 
You know best your own opportunities and powers 
in such a cause. If you can do but little, I shall es- 
teem it much ; and if you can do nothing, I am sure 
that it will not be for want of a will. 

I have lately had three visits from my old school- 
fellow, Mr. Bagot, a brother of Lord Bagot and of 
Mr. Chester of Chichely. At his last visit he brought 
his wife with him, a most amiable woman, to see Mrs. 
Unwin. I told him my purpose, and my progress. 
He received the news with great pleasure ; imme- 
diately subscribed a draft of twenty pounds ; and 
promised me his whole heart and his whole interest, 
which lies principally among people of the first 
fashion. 

My correspondence has lately also been renewed 
with my dear cousin Lady Hesketh, whom I ever 
loved as a sister (for we were in a manner brought 
up together), and who writes to me as affectionately 
as if she were so. She also enters into my views and 
interests upon this occasion with a warmth that gives 
me great encouragement. The circle of her acquaint- 



WILLIAM COWPER. 173 

ance is likewise very extensive ; and I have no doubt 
that she will exert her influence to its utmost possi- 
bilities among them. I have other strings to my bow 
(perhaps, as a translator of Homer, I should say to 
my lyre), which I cannot here enumerate ; but, upon 
the whole, my prospect seems promising enough. ' I 
have not yet consulted Johnson upon the occasion, 
but intend to do it soon. 

My spirits are somewhat better than they were. In 
the course of the last month I have perceived a very 
sensible amendment. The hope of better days seems 
again to dawn upon me ; and I have now and then 
an intimation, though slight and transient, that God 
has not abandoned me forever. 

We have paid Nat. Gee his interest, and I enclose 
his acknowledgment. His last was so effectually mis- 
laid that we have never found it. Mrs. Unwin, who 
sends her love, begs that you will pay out of that 
sum for the newspapers, and remit, if you can think 
of it, the few shillings that will remain, by the first 
that shall call upon you in his way to Olney. She is 
sorry that she forgot the greens. 

This last paragraph must be considered as in a 
parenthesis, for I am going back to the subject of the 
preceding, viz., myself. Having been for some years 
troubled with an inconvenient stomach ; and lately, 
with a stomach that will digest nothing without help ; 
and we having reached the bottom of our own medi- 
cal skill, into which we have dived to little or no pur- 
pose, — I have at length consented to consult Dr. 
Kerr, and expect to see him in a day or two. En- 
gaged as I am, and am likely to be, so long as I am 



174 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

capable of it, in writing for the press, I cannot well 
afford to entertain a malady that is such an enemy 
to all mental operations. 

The morning is beautiful, and tempts me forth 
into the garden. It is all the walk that I can have 
at this season, but not all the exercise. I ring a peal 
every day upon the dumb-bells. 

I am, my dear friend, most truly, 
Yours and Mrs. Newton's. 



LIX. 

PERSONAL EFFORTS IN BEHALF OF HOMER 

SUBSCRIPTIONS. 

To the Rev. William Unwin. 

December 31, 1785. 

My dear William, — You have learned from my 
last that I am now conducting myself upon the plan 
that you recommended to me in the summer. But 
since I wrote it, I have made still farther advances 
in my negotiation with Johnson. The proposals are 
adjusted. The proof-sheet has been printed off, cor- 
rected, and returned. They will be sent abroad as 
soon as I can make up a complete list of the person- 
ages and persons to whom I would have them sent, 
which in a few days I hope to be able to accomplish. 
Johnson behaves very well, at least according to my 
conception of the matter, and seems sensible that I 
have dealt liberally with him. He wishes me to be a 
gainer by my labors, in his own words, " to put some- 



WILLIAM COWPER. 175 

thing handsome in my pocket," and recommends two 
large quartos for the whole. He would not (he says) 
by any means advise an extravagant price, and has 
fixed it at three guineas, — the half, as usual, to be paid 
at the time of subscribing, the remainder on delivery. 
Five hundred names (he adds) at this price will put 
above a thousand pounds into my purse. I am do- 
ing my best to obtain them. I have written, I think, 
to all my quondam friends, except those that are 
dead, requiring their assistance. I have gulped *and 
swallowed, and I have written to the Chancellor, and 
I have written to Colman. I now bring them both 
to a fair test. They can both serve me most mate- 
rially if so disposed. Mr. Newton is warm in my ser- 
vice, and can do not a little. I have of course written 
to Mr. Bagot, who, when he was here, with much 
earnestness and affection entreated me so to do, as soon 
as I should have settled the conditions. If I could 
get Sir Richard Sutton's address, I would write to 
him also, though I have been but once in his com- 
pany since I left Westminster, where he and I read 
the Iliad and Odyssey through together. I enclose 
Lord Dartmouth's answer to my application, which I 
will get you to show to Lady Hesketh, because it 
will please her. I shall be glad if you can make an 
opportunity to call on her during your present stay 
in town. You observe therefore that I am not want- 
ing to myself; he that is so, has no just claim on the 
assistance of others, neither shall myself have any 
cause to complain of me in other respects. I thank 
you for your friendly hints and precautions, and shall 
not fail to give them the guidance of my pen. I re- 



176 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

spect the public, and respect myself, and had rather 
want bread than expose myself wantonly to the con- 
demnation of either. I hate the affectation, so fre- 
quently found in authors, of negligence and slovenly 
slightn ess ; and in the present case am sensible how 
especially necessary it is to shun them, when I under- 
take the vast and invidious labor of doing better than 
Pope has done before me. I thank you for all that 
you have said and done in my cause, and beforehand 
for all that you shall say and do hereafter. I am 
sure that there will be no deficiency on your part. In 
particular, I thank you for taking such jealous care 
of my honor and respectability when the man you 
mention applied for samples of my translation. When 
I deal in wine, cloth, or cheese, I will give samples, 
but of verse never. No consideration would have 
induced me to comply with the gentleman's demand, 
unless he could have assured me that his wife had 
longed. 

I have frequently thought with pleasure of the sum- 
mer that you have had in your heart while you have 
been employed in softening the severity of winter in 
behalf of so many who must otherwise have been ex- 
posed to it. I wish that you could make a general jail- 
delivery, leaving only those behind who cannot else- 
where be so properly disposed of. You never said a 
better thing in your life than when you assured Mr. 
Smith of the expediency of a gift of bedding to the 
poor of Olney. There is no one article of this 
world's comforts with which, as Falstaff says, they 
are so heinously unprovided. When a poor woman, 
and an honest one, whom we know well, carried 



WILLIAM COWPER. 177 

home two pair of blankets, a pair for herself and hus- 
band, and a pair for her six children, — as soon as the 
children saw them, they jumped out of their straw, 
caught them in their arms, kissed them, blessed 
them, and danced for joy. An old woman, a very 
old one, the first night that she found herself so com- 
fortably covered, could not sleep a wink, being kept 
awake by the contrary emotions, of transport on the 
one hand, and the fear of not being thankful enough 
on the other. 

It just occurs to me to say that this manuscript 
of mine will be ready for the press, as I hope, by the 
end of February. I shall have finished the Iliad in 
about ten days, and shall proceed immediately to 
the revisal of the whole. You must, if possible come 
down to Olney, if it be only that you may take the 
charge of its safe delivery to Johnson,, For if by any 
accident it should be lost, I am undone, — the first 
copy being but a lean counterpart of the second. 

Your mother joins with me in love and good wishes 
of every kind to you and all yours. 
Adieu. 



LX. 



REVIEW OF IMPORTANT INCIDENTS IN HIS PAST 
LIFE. 

To Lady Hesketh. 

January 16, 1 786. 

My dearest Cousin, — I have sent, as I hope you 
have heard by this time, a specimen to my good friend 



178 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

the general. 1 To tell you the truth, I begin to be 
ashamed of myself that I had opposed him in the 
only two measures he recommended, and then as- 
sured him that I should be glad of his advice at all 
times. Having put myself under a course of strict 
self-examination upon this subject, I found at last 
that all the reluctance I had felt against a com- 
pliance with his wishes proceeded from a principle 
of shamefacedness at bottom that had insensibly 
influenced my reasonings, and determined me against 
the counsel of a man whom I knew to be wiser than 
myself. Wonderful as it may seem, my cousin, yet 
it is equally true that although I certainly did trans- 
late the Iliad with a design to publish it when I had 
done, and although I have twice issued from the 
press already, yet I do tremble at the thought, and 
so tremble at it that I could not bear to send out a 
specimen, because, by doing so, I should appear in 
public a good deal sooner than I had purposed. 
Thus have I developed my whole heart to you, and if 
you should think it at all expedient, have not the least 
objection to your communicating to the general this 
interpretation of the matter. The specimen has suf- 
fered a little through my too great zeal of amendment ; 
in one instance, at least, it will be necessary to restore 
the original reading. And, by the way, I will observe 
that a scrupulous nicety is a dangerous thing. It 
often betrays a writer into a worse mistake than it 

1 Lady Hesketh had been the means of renewing the com- 
munication between Cowper and their kinsman, General 
Cowper. The "specimen " sent was part of the interview 
between Priam and Achilles, in the last book of the Iliad. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 179 

corrects, sometimes makes a blemish where before 
there was none, and is almost always fatal to the 
spirit of the performance. 

You do not ask me, my dear, for an explanation of 
what I could mean by anguish of mind and by the 
perpetual interruptions that I mentioned. Because 
you do not ask, and because your reason for not ask- 
ing consists of a delicacy and tenderness peculiar to 
yourself, for that very cause I will tell you. A wish 
so suppressed is more irresistible than many wishes 
plainly uttered. Know, then, that in the year 73 the 
same scene that was acted at St. Alban's opened 
upon me again at Olney, only covered with a still 
deeper shade of melancholy, and ordained to be of 
much longer duration. I was suddenly reduced 
from my wonted rate of understanding to an almost 
childish imbecility. I did not indeed lose my senses, 
but I lost the power to exercise them. I could re- 
turn a rational answer even to a difficult question, 
but a question was necessary, or I never spoke at 
all. This state of mind was accompanied, as I sup- 
pose it to be in most instances of the kind, with 
misapprehension of things and persons that made me 
a very untractable patient. I believed that everybody 
hated me, and that Mrs. Unwin hated me most of all ; 
was convinced that all my food was poisoned, to- 
gether with ten thousand megrims of the same stamp. 
I would not be more circumstantial than is neces- 
sary. Dr. Cotton was consulted. He replied that 
he could do no more for me than might be done at 
Olney, but recommended particular vigilance, lest I 
should attempt my life, — a caution for which there 



180 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

was the greatest occasion. At the same time that I 
was convinced of Mrs. Unwin's aversion to me, I 
could endure no other companion. The whole man- 
agement of me consequently devolved upon her, and 
a terrible task she had ; she performed it, however, 
with a cheerfulness hardly ever equalled on such an oc- 
casion ; and I have often heard her say that if ever 
she praised God in her life, it was when she found 
that she was to have all the labor. She performed it 
accordingly, but, as I hinted once before, very much 
to the hurt of her own constitution. It will be thir- 
teen years in little more than a week since this mal- 
ady seized me. Methinks I hear you ask, — your 
affection for me will, I know, make you wish to do 
so, — Is it removed ? I reply, In great measure, but 
not quite. Occasionally I am much distressed, but 
that distress becomes continually less frequent, and I 
think less violent. I find writing, and especially poe- 
try, my best remedy. Perhaps, had I understood 
music, I had never written verse, but had lived upon 
fiddle-strings instead. It is better, however, as it is. 
A poet may, if he pleases, be of a little use in the 
world, while a musician, the most skilful, can only 
divert himself and a few others. I have been emerg- 
ing gradually from this pit. As soon as I became 
capable of action, I commenced carpenter, made 
cupboards, boxes, stools. 1 grew weary of this in 
about a twelvemonth, and addressed myself to the 
making of birdcages. To this employment suc- 
ceeded that of gardening, which I intermingled with 
that of drawing ; but finding that the latter occupa- 
tion injured my eyes, I renounced it, and commenced 



WILLIAM COWPER. 18 1 

poet. I have given you, my dear, a little history in 
shorthand ; I know that it will touch your feelings, 
but do not let it interest them too much. In the year 
when I wrote " The Task''' (for it occupied me about 
a year) I was very often most supremely unhappy, 
and am under God indebted in good part to that 
work for not having been much worse. You did not 
know what a clever fellow I am, and how I can turn 
my hand to anything. 

I perceive that this time I shall make you pay 
double postage, and there is no help for it. Unless 
I write myself out now, I shall forget half of what I 
have to say. Now, therefore, for the interruptions at 
which I hinted. — There came a lady into this coun- 
try, by name and title Lady Austen, the widow of 
the late Sir Robert Austen. At first she lived with 
her sister, about a mile from Olney ; but in a few 
weeks took lodgings at the vicarage here. Between 
the vicarage and the back of our house are interposed 
our garden, an orchard, and the garden belonging 
to the vicarage. She had lived much in France, was 
very sensible, and had infinite vivacity. She took a 
great liking to us, and we to her. She had been used 
to a great deal of company, and we, fearing that she 
would find such a transition into silent retirement irk- 
some, contrived to give her our agreeable company 
often. Becoming continually more and more inti- 
mate, a practice obtained at length of our dining with 
each other alternately every day, Sundays excepted. 
In order to facilitate our communication, we made 
doors in the two garden- walls above said, by which 
means we considerably shortened the way from one 



152 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

house to the other, and could meet when we pleased 
without entering the town at all, — a measure the rather 
expedient because in winter the town is abominably 
dirty, and she kept no carriage. On her first settlement 
in our neighborhood I made it my particular business 
(for at that time I was not employed in writing, hav- 
ing published my first volume, and not begun my 
second) to pay my devoirs to her ladyship every 
morning at eleven. Customs very soon become 
laws. I began " The Task," — for she was the lady 
who gave me the Sofa for a subject. Being once 
engaged in the work, I began to feel the inconve- 
nience of my morning attendance. We had seldom 
breakfasted ourselves till ten, and the intervening 
hour was all the time that I could find in the whole 
day for writing ; and occasionally it would happen 
that the half of that hour was all that I could secure 
for the purpose. But there was no remedy ; long 
usage had made that which at first was optional, a 
point of good manners, and consequently of necessity, 
and I was forced to neglect "The Task" to attend up- 
on the Muse who had inspired the subject. But she 
had ill health, and before I quite finished the work 
was obliged to repair to Bristol. Thus, as I told you, 
my dear, the cause of the many interruptions that I 
mentioned, was removed, and now, except the Bull 
that I spoke of, we have seldom any company at all. 
After all that I have said upon this matter, you will 
not completely understand me, perhaps, unless I ac- 
count for the remainder of the day. I will add, there- 
fore, that having paid my morning visit, I walked ; 
returning from my walk, I dressed ; we then met and 



WILLIAM COWPER. 183 

dined, and parted not till between ten and eleven at 
night. 

My cousin, I thank you for giving me a copy of 
the general's note, of which I and my publication 
were so much the subject. I learned from it, better 
than I could have learned the same thing from any 
other document, the kindness of his purposes towards 
me, and how much I may depend on his assistance. 
I am vexed, and have been these three days, that I 
thwarted him in the affair of a specimen ; 2 but as I 
told you, I have still my gloomy hours, which had 
their share, together with the more powerful cause 
assigned above, in determining my behavior. But I 
have given the best proof possible of my repentance, 
and was indeed in such haste to evince it that I sent 
my despatches to Newport, on purpose to catch the 
by-post. How much I love you for the generosity 
of that offer which made the general observe that 
your money seemed to burn in your pocket, I can- 
not readily, nor indeed at all, express. Neither is 
Mrs. Unwin in the least behind me in her sense of it. 
We may well admire and love you, for we have not 
met with many such occurrences, or even heard of 
many such, since we first entered a world where 
friendship is in every mouth, but finds only here and 
there a heart that has room for it. 

I know well, my cousin, how formidable a creature 
you are when you become once outrageous. No 
sprat in a storm is half so terrible. But it is all in 
vain. You are at a distance, so we snap our fingers 
at you. Not that we have any more fowls at pres- 

1 Having at first refused the request to send a specimen. 



184 THE BEST LETTERS OE 

ent. No, no ; you may make yourself easy upon 
that subject. The coop is empty, and at this time 
of year cannot be replenished ; but the spring will 
soon begin to advance. There are such things as 
eggs in the world, which eggs will, by incubation, be 
transformed, some of them into chickens, and others 
of them into ducklings. So muster up all your pa- 
tience, for as sure as you live, if we live also, we 
shall put it to the trial. But, seriously, you must 
not deny us one of the greatest pleasures we can 
have, which is to give you now and then a little tiny 
proof how much we value you. We cannot sit with 
our hands before us and be contented with only say- 
ing that we love Lady Hesketh. 

The little item that you inserted in your cover, con- 
cerning a review of a certain author's work, in the 
" Gentleman's Magazine," excited Mrs. Unwin's curi- 
osity to see it in a moment. In vain did I expostu- 
late with her on the vanity of all things here below, 
especially of human praise, telling her what perhaps 
indeed she had heard before, but what on such an 
occasion I thought it not amiss to remind her of, that 
at the best it is but as the idle wind that whistles as 
it passes by, and that a little attention to the dictates 
of reason would presently give her the victory over 
all the curiosity that she felt so troublesome. For a 
short time, indeed, I prevailed, but the next day the 
fit returned upon her with more violence than before. 
She would see it, — she was resolved that she would 
see it that moment. You must know, my dear, 
that a watchmaker lives within two or three doors of 
us, who takes in the said Magazine for a gentleman 






WILLIAM COWPER. 185 

at some distance, and as it happened it had not been 
sent to its proper owner, Accordingly, the messen- 
ger that the lady despatched, returned with it, and 
she was gratified. As to myself, I read the article in- 
deed, and read it to her ; but I do not concern 
myself much, you may suppose, about such matters, 
and shall only make two or three cursory remarks, 
and so conclude. In the first place, therefore, I ob- 
serve that it is enough to craze a poor poet to see 
his verses so miserably misprinted, and, which is 
worse, if possible, his very praises in a manner anni- 
hilated, by a jumble of the lines out of their places, 
so that in two instances the end of the period takes 
the lead of the beginning of it. The said poet has 
still the more reason to be crazed because the said 
Magazine is in general singularly correct. But at 
Christmas, no doubt, -your printer will get drunk as 
well as another man. It is astonishing to me that 
they know so exactly how much I translated of Vol- 
taire. My recollection, refreshed by them, tells me 
that they are right in the number of the books that 
they affirm to have been translated by me, but till 
they brought the fact again to my mind, I myself had 
forgotten that part of the business entirely. My 
brother had twenty guineas for eight books of Eng- 
lish " Henriade," and I furnished him with four of 
them. They are not equally accurate in the affair of 
the Tame Mouse. That I kept one is certain, and 
that I kept it. as they say, in my bureau, — but not 
in the Temple ; it was while I was at Westminster. 
I kept it till it produced six young ones, and my 
transports when I first discovered them cannot eas- 



1 86 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

ily be conceived, — any more than my mortification 
when, going again to visit my little family, I found that 
mouse herself had eaten them ! I turned her loose, 
in indignation, and vowed never to keep a mouse 
again. Who the writer of this article can be, I am 
not able to imagine, nor where he had his informa- 
tion of these particulars. But they know all the 
world and everything that belongs to it- The mis- 
take that has occasioned the mention of Unwin's 
name in the margin would be ludicrous if it were not 
inadvertently, indeed, and innocently on their part 
profane. I should have thought it impossible that 
when I spoke of One who had been wounded in the 
hands and in the side, any reader in a Christian land 
could have been for a moment at a loss for the per- 
son intended. 

Adieu, my dear cousin ; I intended that one of 
these should have served as a case for the other, but 
before I was aware of it I filled both sheets com- 
pletely. However, as your money burns in your 
pocket, there is no harm done. I shall not add a 
syllable more, except that I am, and while I breathe 
ever shall be, 

Most truly yours. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 187 



LXI. 

ARRANGEMENTS FOR HIS COUSIN'S COMING TO 
OLNEY. — HOMER.— THE CRITICS. 

To Lady Hesketh. 

Olney, February 19, 1786. 

My dearest Cousin, — Since so it must be, so it 
shall be. If you will not sleep under the roof of a 
friend, may you never sleep under the roof of an 
enemy ! An enemy, however, you will not presently 
find. Mrs. Unwin bids me mention her affection- 
ately, and tell you that she willingly gives up a part, 
for the sake of the rest, — willingly, at least, as far as 
willingly may consist with some reluctance. I feel 
my reluctance too. Our design was, that you should 
have slept in the room that serves me for a study ; 
and its having been occupied by you would have 
been an additional recommendation of it to me. 
But all reluctances are superseded by the thought 
of seeing you; and because we have nothing so 
much at heart as the wish to see you happy and 
comfortable, we are desirous, therefore, to accom- 
modate you to your own mind, and not to ours. 
Mrs. Unwin has already secured for you an apart- 
ment, or rather two, just such as we could wish. 
The house in which you will find them is within 
thirty yards of our own, and opposite to it. The 
whole affair is thus commodiously adjusted ; and 
now I have nothing to do but to wish for June ; 
and June, my cousin, was never so wished for since 



1 88 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

June was made. I shall have a thousand things to 
hear, and a thousand to say, and they will all rush 
into my mind together, till it will be so crowded 
with things impatient to be said that for some time 
I shall say nothing. But no matter, — sooner or 
later they will all come out ; and since we shall 
have you the longer for not having you under our 
own roof (a circumstance that, more than anything, 
reconciles us to that measure), they will stand the 
better chance. After so long a separation, a sepa- 
ration that of late seemed likely to last for life, we 
shall meet each other as alive from the dead ; and 
for my own part, I can truly say that I have not 
a friend in the other world whose resurrection would 
give me greater pleasure. 

I am truly happy, my dear, in having pleased you 
with what you have seen of my Homer. I wish 
that all English readers had your unsophisticated, 
or rather unadulterated, taste, and could relish sim- 
plicity like you. But I am well aware that in this 
respect I am under a disadvantage, and that many, 
especially many ladies, missing many turns and 
prettinesses of expression that they have admired 
in Pope, will account my translation in those par- 
ticulars defective. But I comfort myself with the 
thought that in reality it is no defect ; on the con- 
trary, that the want of all such embellishments as 
do not belong to the original will be one of its prin- 
cipal merits with persons indeed capable of relish- 
ing Homer. He is the best poet that ever lived 
for many reasons, but for none more than for that 
majestic plainness that distinguishes him from all 






WILLIAM COWPER. 189 

others. As an accomplished person moves grace- 
fully without thinking of it, in like manner the dig- 
nity of Homer seems to cost him no labor. It was 
natural to him to say great things, and to say them 
well, and little ornaments were beneath his notice. 
If Maty, 1 my dearest cousin, should return to you 
my copy with any such strictures as may make it 
necessary for me to see it again before it goes to 
Johnson, in that case you shall send it to me, other- 
wise to Johnson immediately ; for he writes me 
word he wishes his friend 2 to go to work upon it 
as soon as possible. When you come, my dear, 
we will hang all these critics together, for they have 
worried me without remorse or conscience, — at least 
one of them has. I had actually murdered more 
than a few of the best lines in the specimen, in 
compliance with his requisitions, but plucked up 
my courage at last, and in the very last opportunity 
that I had, recovered them to life again by restor- 
ing the original reading. At the same time I 
readily confess that the specimen is the better for 
all this discipline its author has undergone ; but 
then it has been more indebted for its improvement 
to that pointed accuracy of examination to which 
I was myself excited, than to any proposed amend- 
ments from Mr. Critic ; for as sure as you are my 
cousin whom I long to see at Olney, so surely 
would he have done me irreparable mischief, if I 
would have given him leave. 

1 Dr. Maty, of the "Museum," who wrote the review of 
"The Task" for that periodical. 

2 Fuseli, whose accurate acquaintance with the original 
proved of great service to the translation. 



190 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

My friend Bagot writes to me in a most friendly 
strain, and calls loudly upon me for original poetry. 
When I shall have done with Homer, probably he 
will not call in vain. Having found the prime 
feather of a swan on the banks of the smug and 
silver Trent, he keeps it for me. 

Adieu, my dear cousin. 

I am sorry that the general has such indifferent 
health. He must not die. I can by no means 
spare a person so kind to me. 



LXII. 

LODGING-HUNTING; PART OF THE VICARAGE 
SECURED. 

To Lady Hesketh. 

Monday, April 10, 1786. 
That 's my good cousin ! now I love you ! now 
I will think of June as you do, that it is the pleasant- 
est of all months, unless you should happen to be here 
in November too, and make it equally delightful. 
Before I shall have finished my letter, Mrs. Unwin 
will have taken a view of the house concerning 
which you inquire, and I shall be able to give you 
a circumstantial account of it. The man who built 
it is lately dead ; he had been a common sailor, 
and assisted, under Wolfe and Amherst, at the tak- 
ing of Quebec. When we came hither he was 
almost penniless ; but climbing by degrees into the 






WILLIAM COWPER. 191 

lace business, amassed money, and built the house 
in question. Just before he died, having an enter- 
prising genius, he put almost his whole substance 
to hazard in sending a large cargo of lace to 
America, and the venture failing, he has left his 
widow in penury and distress. For this reason 
I conclude that she will have no objection to let- 
ting as much of her house as my cousin will have 
occasion for, and have therefore given you this 
short history of the matter. The bed is the best 
in the town ; and the honest tar's folly was much 
laughed at when it was known that he, who had 
so often swung in a hammock, had given twenty 
pounds for a bed. But now I begin to hope that 
he made a wiser bargain than I once thought it. 
She is no gentlewoman, as you may suppose, but 
she is nevertheless a very quiet, decent, sober body, 
and well respected among her neighbors. 

But Hadley, my dearest cousin, what is to be 
said of Hadley? Only this at present, that having 
such an inhabitant as Mr. Burrows, and the hope 
belonging to it of such another inhabitant as your- 
self, it has all charms, all possible recommenda- 
tions. Yes ; had I the wings that David wished 
for, I would surely stretch them to their utmost 
extent, that I might reach any place where I should 
have you to converse with perhaps half the year. 
But alas ! my dear, instead of wings, I have a chain 
and a collar ; the history of which collar and chain 
Mrs. Unwin shall give you when you come, else 
I would fly, and she would fly also, with the utmost 
alacrity to Hadley, or whithersoever you should call 



J 92 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

us, for Olney has no hold upon us in particular. 
Here have we no family connections, no neighbors 
with whom we can associate, no friendships. If the 
country is pleasant, so also are other countries ; and 
so far as income is concerned, we should not, I sup- 
pose, find ourselves in a more expensive situation 
at Hadley, or anywhere, than here. But there are 
lets and hindrances which no power of man can 
remove, which will make your poor heart ache, my 
dear, when you come to know them. I will not 
say that they can never be removed, because I will 
not set bounds to that which has no bounds, — the 
mercy of God ; but of the removal of them there 
is no present apparent probability. I knew a Mr. 
Burrows once, — it was when I lived in the Temple ; 
so far knew him that we simpered at each other 
when we met, and on opposite sides of the way 
touched hats. This Mr. Burrows, though at that 
time a young man, was rather remarkable for cor- 
pulence, and yet tall. He was at the bar. On a 
sudden I missed him, and was informed soon after 
that he had taken orders. Is it possible that your 
Mr. Burrows and mine can be the same? The 
imagination is not famous for taking good likenesses 
of persons and faces that we never saw. In gen- 
eral, the picture that we draw in our minds of an 
inconnu is of all possible pictures the most unlike 
the original. So it has happened to me in this 
instance ; my fancy assured me that Mr. Burrows 
was a slim, elegant young man, dressed always to the 
very point of exactness, with a sharp face, a small 
voice, a delicate address, and the gentlest manners. 



WILLIAM COWPER, 193 

Such was my dream of Mr. Burrows ; and how my 
dream of him came to be such I know not, unless 
it arose from what I seemed to have collected out 
of the several letters in which you have mentioned 
him. From them I learned that he has wit, sense, 
taste, and genius, with which qualities I do not 
generally connect the ideas of bulk and rotundity ; 
and from them I also learned that he has numerous 
connections at your end of the town, where the 
company of those who have anything rough in their 
exterior is least likely to be coveted. So it must 
have come to pass that I made to myself such a 
very unsuitable representation of him. But I am 
not sorry that he is such as he is ; he is no loser 
by the bargain, in my account. I am not the less 
delighted with his high approbation, and wish for 
no better fortune as a poet than always so to please 
such men as Mr. Burrows. I will not say, my dear, 
that you yourself gain any advantage in my opinion 
by the difference, for to seat you higher there than 
you were always seated is not possible. I will only 
observe in this instance, as always in all instances, 
I discover a proof of your own good sense and dis- 
cernment, who, finding in Mr. Burrows a mind so 
deserving of your esteem and regard, have not suf- 
fered your eye to prejudice you against it, — a faux 
pas into which I have known ladies of very good 
understanding betrayed ere now, I assure you. 
Had there been a question last year of our meeting 
at Olney, I should have felt myself particularly in- 
terested in this inattention of yours to the figure, 
for the sake of its contents ; for at that time I had 
13 



194 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

rather more body than it became a man who pre- 
tends to public approbation as a poet to carry 
about him. But, thanks to Dr. Kerr, I do not at 
present measure an inch more in the girth than 
is perfectly consistent with the highest pretensions 
in that way. Apollo himself is hardly less charge- 
able with prominence about the waist than I am. 

I by no means insist upon making ladies of the 
Trojan women, unless I can reconcile you to the 
term. But I must observe, in the first place, that 
though in our language the word be of modern use, 
it is likewise very ancient. We read in our oldest 
Bibles of the elect Lady, and of Babylon, the Lady 
of kingdoms. In the next place, the Grecians, 
Homer at least, when a woman of rank is accosted, 
takes care in many instances that she shall be 
addressed in a style suited to her condition ; for 
which purpose he employs a word more magnificent 
in its amount than even lady, and which literally 
signifies very little less than goddess. The word 
that I mean — that I may make it legible to you — 
is Daimonie. There were, no doubt, in Troy — 
But I will say no more of it. I have that to write 
about to my English lady that makes all the ladies 
of antiquity nothing worth to me. 

We are at this moment returned from the house 
above mentioned. The parlor is small and neat, 
not a mere cupboard, but very passable ; the cham- 
ber is better, and quite smart. There is a little 
room close to your own for Mrs. Eaton, and there 
is room for Cookee and Samuel. The terms are 
half a guinea a week ; but it seems as if we were 



WILLIAM COWPER. 195 

never to take a step without a stumble. The kit- 
chen is bad, — it has, indeed, never been used except 
as a washhouse ; for people at Olney do not eat and 
drink as they do in other places. I do not mean, 
my dear, that they quaff nectar or feed on ambrosia, 
but tout au contraire. So what must be done about 
this abominable kitchen ? It is out of doors, — that 
is not amiss. It has neither range nor jack, — that 
is terrible. But then range and jack are not un- 
attainables ; they may be easily supplied. And if 
it were not — abominable kitchen that it is — no 
bigger than half an egg-shell, shift might be made. 
The good woman is content that your servants 
should eat and drink in her parlor, but expects that 
they shall disperse themselves when they have done. 
But whither, who can say ? — unless into the arbor in 
the garden ; for that they should solace themselves 
in said kitchen were hardly to be expected. While 
I write this, Mrs. U. is gone to attempt a treaty 
with the linendraper over the way, which, if she 
succeeds, will be best of all, because the rooms are 
better, and it is just at hand. I must halt till she 
returns. — She returns, — nothing done. She is gone 
again to another place ; once more I halt. Again 
she returns, and opens the parlor door with these 
tidings : " I have succeeded beyond my utmost 
hopes. I went to Maurice Smith's (he, you must 
know, my dear, is a Jack-of-all-trades) ; I said, ' Do 
you know if Mr. Brightman could and would let lodg- 
ings ready furnished to a lady with three servants ? ' 
Maurice's wife calls out (she is a Quaker), 'Why 
dost thee not take the vicarage ? ' I replied, ' There 



196 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

is no furniture.' ' Pshaw ! ' quoth Maurice's wife ; 
' we will furnish it for thee, and at the lowest rate ; 
from a bed to a platter, we will find all.'" "And 
what do you intend now? " said I to Mrs. Unwin. 
"Why, now," quoth she, " I am going to the curate 
to hear what he says." So away she goes, and in 
about twenty minutes returns. " Well, now it is all 
settled. Lady H. is to have all the vicarage, except 
two rooms, at the rate of ten guineas a year ; and 
Maurice will furnish it for five guineas from June to 
November, inclusive." So, my dear, you and your 
train are provided for to my heart's content. They 
are Lady Austen's lodgings, only with more room, 
and at the same price. You have a parlor sixteen 
feet by fourteen, chamber ditto ; a room for your 
own maid, near to your own, that I have occupied 
many a good time ; an exceeding good garret for 
Cookee, and another ditto, at a convenient distance, 
for Samuel ; a cellar, a good kitchen, the use of the 
garden, — in short, all that you can want. Give us 
our commission in your next, and all shall be ready 
by the first of June. You will observe, my beloved 
cousin, that it is not in all above eight shillings a 
week in the whole year, or but a trifle more. And 
the furniture is really smart, and the beds good. 
But you must find your own linen. Come, then, 
my beloved cousin, for I am determined that, what- 
soever king shall reign, you shall be Vicar of Olney. 
Come and cheer my heart. I have left many things 
unsaid, but shall note them another time. Adieu ! 
Ever yours. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 197 

I am so charmed with the subject that concludes 
my letter that I grudge every inch of paper to any 
other. Yet must I allow myself space to say that 
Lord Dartmouth's behavior to you at the concert 
has won my heart to him more than ever. It was 
such a well-timed kindness to me, and so evidently 
performed with an equal design of giving pleasure 
to you, that I love him for it at my heart. I have 
never, indeed, at any time had occasion to charge 
him, as I know that many have done, with want of 
warmth in his friendship. I honor you, my dear, 
for your constellation of nobles. I rejoice that the 
contents of my box have pleased you : may I never 
write anything that does not ! My friend Bull 
brought me to-day the last " Gentleman's Magazine." 
There your cousin is held up again. Oh, rare coz ! 



LXIII. 

DESCRIPTION OF THE VICARAGE. 

To Lady Hesketh. 

Olney, April 17, 1786, 
My dearest Cousin, — If you will not quote Sol- 
omon, my dearest cousin, I will. He says, and as 
beautiful as truly : " Hope deferred maketh the heart 
sick, but when the desire cometh, it is a tree of 
life." I feel how much reason he had on his side 
when he made this observation, and am myself sick 
of your fortnight's delay. 



198 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

The vicarage was built by Lord Dartmouth, and 
was not finished till some time after we arrived at 
Olney, consequently it is new. It is a smart stone 
building, well sashed, by much too good for the liv- 
ing, but just what I would wish for you. It has, as 
you justly concluded from my premises, a garden, 
but rather calculated for use than ornament. It is 
square and well walled, but has neither arbor nor 
alcove nor other shade except the shadow of the 
house. But we have two gardens, which are yours. 
Between your mansion and ours is interposed noth- 
ing but an orchard, into which a door opening out 
of our garden affords us the easiest communication 
imaginable, will save the roundabout by the town, 
and make both houses one. Your chamber-windows 
look over the river and over the meadows to a vil- 
lage called Emberton, and command the whole 
length of a long bridge described by a certain poet, 
together with a view of the road at a distance. 1 
Should you wish for books at Olney, you must bring 
them with you, or you will wish in vain ; for I have 
none but the works of a certain poet, — Cowper, of 
whom perhaps you have heard ; and they are as yet 
but two volumes. They may multiply hereafter, but 
at present they are no more. 

You are the first person for whom I have heard 
Mrs. Unwin express such feelings as she does for 
you. She is not profuse in professions, nor forward 
to enter into treaties of friendship with new faces ; 
but when her friendship is once engaged, it may be 
confided in even unto death. She loves you already, 
1 See The Task, Book IV. 



WILLIAM COW PER. 199 

and how much more will she love you before this 
time twelvemonth ! I have indeed endeavored to 
describe you to her ; but perfectly as I have you by 
heart, I am sensible that my picture cannot do you 
justice. I never saw one that did. Be you what 
you may, you are much beloved, and will be so at 
Olney ; and Mrs. U.. expects you with the pleasure 
that one feels at the return of a long absent, dear 
relation, — that is to say, with a pleasure such as 
mine. She sends you her warmest affections. 

On Friday I received a letter from dear Anony- 
mous, 1 apprising me of a parcel that the coach would 
bring me on Saturday. Who is there in the world 
that has, or thinks he has, reason to love me to 
the degree that he does? But it is no matter, he 
chooses to be unknown ; and his choice is, and ever 
shall be, so sacred to me that if his name lay on the 
table before me reversed, I would not turn the paper 
about that I might read it. Much as it would gratify 
me to thank him, I would turn my eyes away from 
the forbidden discovery. I long to assure him that 
those same eyes, concerning which he expresses such 
kind apprehensions lest they should suffer by this 
laborious undertaking, are as well as I could expect 
them to be if I were never to touch either book or 
pen. Subject to weakness and occasional slight in- 
flammations it is probable that they will always be ; 
but I cannot remember the time when they enjoyed 
anything so like an exemption from those infirmities 
as at present. One would almost suppose that read- 
ing Homer were the best ophthalmic in the world. 
1 Probably Theodora Cowper, his ever-faithful lady-love. 



200 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

I should be happy to remove his solicitude on the 
subject ; but it is a pleasure that he will not let me 
enjoy. Well, then, I will be content without it, — 
and so content that, though I believe you, my dear, 
to be in full possession of all this mystery, you shall 
never know me, while you live, either directly or by 
hints of any sort attempt to extort or to steal the 
secret from you. I should think myself as justly 
punishable as the Bethshemites for looking into the 
ark, which they were not allowed to touch. 

I have not sent for Kerr, 1 for Kerr can do nothing 
but send me to Bath ; and to Bath I cannot go for a 
thousand reasons. The summer will set me up again. 
I grow fat every day, and shall be as big as Gog or 
Magog, or both put together, before you come. 

I did actually live three years with Mr. Chapman, 
a solicitor, — that is to say, I slept three years in his 
house ; but I lived — that is to say, I spent my days 
— in Southampton Row, as you very well remember. 
There was I, and the future Lord Chancellor, con- 
stantly employed from morning to night in giggling 
and making giggle, instead of studying the law. Oh, 
fie ! — cousin, how could you do so ? I am pleased 
with Lord Thurlow's inquiries about me. If he takes 
it into that inimitable head of his, he may make a 
man of me yet. I could love him heartily if he 
would but deserve it at my hands. That I did so 

once is certain. The Duchess of — : , who in 

the world set her a-going ? But if all the duchesses in 

the world were spinning like so many whirligigs for 

my benefit, I would not stop them. It is a noble 

1 Dr. Kerr of Northampton. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 201 

thing to be a poet, it makes all the world so lively. 
I might have preached more sermons than even 
Tillotson did, and better, and the world would have 
been still fast asleep ; but a volume of verse is a fiddle 
that puts the universe in motion. 

Yours, my dear friend and cousin. 



LXIV. 

JOY IN LETTERS. —CO WPERSHIP. 

To Lady Hesketh. 

Olney, April 24, 1786. 
Your letters are so much my comfort that I often 
tremble lest by any accident I should be disap- 
pointed, and the more because you have been more 
than once so engaged in company on the writing 
day that I have had a narrow escape. Let me give 
you a piece of good counsel, my cousin : follow my 
laudable example, — write when you can ; take Time's 
forelock in one hand and a pen in the other, and so 
make sure of your opportunity. It is well for me that 
you write faster than anybody, and more in an hour 
than other people in two, else 1 know not what would 
become of me. When I read your letters, I hear 
you talk ; and I love talking letters dearly, especially 
from you. Well, the middle of June will not be 
always a thousand years off; and when it comes I 
shall hear you, and see you too, and shall not care 
a farthing then if you do not touch a pen in a month. 



202 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

By the way, you must either send me or bring me 
some more paper ; for before the moon shall have 
performed a few more revolutions I shall not have 
a scrap left, — and tedious revolutions they are just 
now, that is certain. 

I give you leave to be as peremptory as you 
please, especially at a distance ; but when you say 
that you are a Cowper (and the better it is for the 
Cowpers that such you are, and I give them joy of 
you with all my heart), you must not forget that I 
boast myself a Cowper too, and have my humors and 
fancies and purposes and determinations as well as 
others of my name, and hold them as fast as they 
can. You indeed tell me how often I shall see you 
when you come, — a pretty story truly ! I am a he 
Cowper, my dear, and claim the privileges that belong 
to my noble sex. But these matters shall be settled, 
as my cousin Agamemnon used to say, at a more con- 
venient time. 

I shall rejoice to see the letter you promise me ; 
for though I met with a morsel of praise last week, 
I do not know that the week current is likely to pro- 
duce me any, and having lately been pretty much 
pampered with that diet, I expect to find myself 
rather hungry by the time when your next letter 
shall arrive. It will therefore be very opportune. 
The morsel above alluded to came from — whom do 

you think ? From ; but she desires that her 

authorship may be a secret ; and in my answer I prom- 
ised not to divulge it, except to you. It is a pretty 
copy of verses, neatly written and well turned, and 
when you come you shall see them. I intend to 



WILLIAM COWPER. 203 

keep all pretty things to myself till then, that they 
may serve me as a bait to lure you hither more 

effectually. The last letter that I had from 

I received so many years since that it seems as if it 
had reached me a good while before I was born. 

I was grieved at the heart that the general could 
not come, and that illness was in part the cause that 
hindered him. I have sent him, by his express 
desire, a new edition of the first book and half 
the second. He would not suffer me to send it to 
you, my dear, lest you should post it away to Maty 
at once. He did not give that reason; but being 
shrewd, I found it. 

The grass begins to grow and the leaves to bud, 
and everything is preparing to be beautiful against 
you come. Adieu ! 

You inquire of our walks, I perceive, as well as of 
our rides : they are beautiful. You inquire also con- 
cerning a cellar : you have two cellars. Oh, what 
years have passed since we took the same walks 
and drank out of the same bottle ! But a few more 
weeks, and then — ! 



LXV. 

ANNOUNCING INTENDED REMOVAL TO WESTON. 

To the Rev. William Wnwin. 

Olney, July 3, 1786. 
My dear William, — After a long silence I begin 
again. A day given to my friends is a day taken 



204 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

from Homer ; but to such an interruption now and 
then occurring I have no objection. Lady Hesketh 
is, as you observe, arrived, and has been with us 
near a fortnight. She pleases everybody, and is 
pleased in her turn with everything she finds at 01- 
ney ; is always cheerful and sweet-tempered, and 
knows no pleasure equal to that of communicating 
pleasure to us, and to all around her. This disposi- 
tion in her is the more comfortable because it is not 
the humor of the day, — a sudden flash of benevo- 
lence and good spirits occasioned merely by a change 
of scene, — but it is her natural turn, and has governed 
all her conduct ever since I knew her first. We are 
consequently happy in her society, and shall be hap- 
pier still to have you to partake with us in our joy. 
I can now assure you that her complexion is not at 
all indebted to art, having seen a hundred times the 
most convincing proof of its authenticity, — her color 
fading and glowing again alternately as the weather or 
her own temperature has happened to affect it, while 
she has been sitting before me. I am fond of the 
sound of bells, but was never more pleased with those 
of Olney than when they rang her into her new 
habitation. It is a compliment that our performers 
upon those instruments have never paid to any other 
personage (Lord Dartmouth excepted) since we 
knew the town. In short, she is, as she ever was, 
my pride and my joy, and I am delighted with every- 
thing that means to do her honor. Her first ap- 
pearance was too much for me. My spirits — instead 
of being greatly raised, as I had inadvertently sup- 
posed they would be — broke down with me under 



WILLIAM COWPER. 205 

the pressure of too much joy, and left me fiat, or 
rather melancholy, throughout the day, to a degree 
that was mortifying to myself, and alarming to her. 
But I have made amends for this failure since, and 
in point of cheerfulness have far exceeded her ex- 
pectations ; for she knew that sable had been my 
suit for many years. 

And now I shall communicate intelligence that 
will give you pleasure. When you first contem- 
plated the front of our abode you were shocked. 
In your eyes it had the appearance of a prison, and 
you sighed at the thought that your mother dwelt in 
it. Your view of it was not only just, but prophetic. 
It had not only the aspect of a place built for the 
purpose of incarceration, but has actually served 
that purpose through a long, long period, and we 
have been the prisoners. But a jail-delivery is at 
hand : the bolts and bars are to be loosed, and we 
shall escape. A very different mansion, both in point 
of appearance and accommodation, expects us, and 
the expense of living in it not greater than we are 
subjected to in this. It is situated at Weston, — one 
of the prettiest villages in England, — and belongs 
to Mr. Throckmorton. We all three dine with him 
to-day by invitation, and shall survey it in the after- 
noon, point out the necessary repairs, and finally 
adjust the treaty. I have my cousin's promise that 
she will never let another year pass without a visit to 
us ; and the house is large enough to contain us and 
our suite and her also, with as many of hers as she 
shall choose to bring. The change will, I hope, prove 
advantageous both to your mother and me in all 



206 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

respects. Here we have no neighborhood ; there we 
shall have most agreeable neighbors in the Throck- 
mortons. Here we have a bad air in winter, im- 
pregnated with the fishy smelling fumes of the marsh 
miasma ; there we shall breathe in an atmosphere 
untainted. Here we are confined from September 
to March, and sometimes longer ; there we shall be 
upon the very verge of pleasure-grounds in which 
we can always ramble, and shall not wade through 
almost impassable dirt to get at them. Both your 
mother's constitution and mine have suffered ma- 
terially by such close and long confinement ; and it 
is high time, unless we intend to retreat into the 
grave, that we should seek out a more wholesome 
residence. A pretty deal of new furniture will be 
wanted, especially chairs and beds, — all which my 
kind cousin will provide, and fit up a parlor and a 
chamber for herself into the bargain. So far is well ; 
the rest is left to Heaven. 

I have hardly left myself room for an answer to 
your queries concerning my friend John and his 
studies. What the supplement of Hirtius is made 
of, I know not ; we did not read it at Westminster. 
I should imagine it might be dispensed with. I 
should recommend the Civil War of Caesar, because 
he wrote it, — who ranks, I believe, as the best writer, 
as well as soldier, of his day. There are books (I 
know not what they are, but you do, and can easily 
find them) that will inform him clearly of both the 
civil and military management of the Romans, — the 
several officers, I mean, in both departments, and 
what was the peculiar province of each. The study 



WILLIAM COWPER. 207 

of some such book would, I should think, prove a 
good introduction to that of Livy, unless you have a 
Livy with notes to that effect. A want of intel- 
ligence in those points has heretofore made the 
Roman history very dark and difficult to me ; there- 
fore I thus advise. 

Our love is with all your lovelies, both great and 
small. 

Yours ever. 



LXVI. 

FUSELI. — HOMER. — DENNIS. 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot. 1 

Olney, July 4, 1786. 
I rejoice, my dear friend, that you have at last 
received my proposals, and most cordially thank you 
for all your labors in my service. I have friends in 
the world who, knowing that I am apt to be careless 
when left to myself, are determined to watch over 
me with a jealous eye upon this occasion. The con- 
sequence will be that the work will be better exe- 
cuted, but more tardy in the production. To them 
I owe it that my translation, as fast as it proceeds, 
passes under a revisal of the most accurate discerner 
of all blemishes. I know not whether I told you be- 
fore, or now tell you for the first time, that I am in 
the hands of a very extraordinary person. 2 He is 

1 A friend of school-boy days at Westminster. 

2 Fuseli. 



208 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

intimate with my bookseller, and voluntarily offered 
his service. I was at first doubtful whether to ac- 
cept it or not ; but finding that my friends above- 
said were not to be satisfied on any other terms, 
though myself a perfect stranger to the man and his 
qualifications, except as he was recommended by 
Johnson, I at length consented, and have since found 
great reason to rejoice that I did. I called him an 
extraordinary person, and such he is ; for he is not 
only versed in Homer and accurate in his knowledge 
of the Greek to a degree that entitles him to that 
appellation, but, though a foreigner, is a perfect mas- 
ter of our language, and has exquisite taste in English 
poetry. By his assistance I have improved many 
passages, supplied many oversights, and corrected 
many mistakes, — such as will, of course, escape the 
most diligent and attentive laborer in such a work. 
I ought to add — because it affords the best assur- 
ance of his zeal and fidelity — that he does not toil 
for hire, nor will accept of any premium, but has en- 
tered on this business merely for his amusement. 
In the last instance my sheets will pass through the 
hands of our old schoolfellow Colman, who has 
engaged to correct the press and make any little alter- 
ations that he may see expedient. With all this pre- 
caution, little as I intended it once, I am now well 
satisfied. Experience has convinced me that other 
eyes than my own are necessary, in order that so 
long and arduous a task may be finished as it ought, 
and may neither discredit me nor mortify and dis- 
appoint my friends. You, who I know interest your- 
self much and deeply in my success, will I dare say 



WILLIAM COWPER. 209 

be satisfied with it too. Pope had many aids ; and 
he who follows Pope ought not to walk alone. 

Though I announce myself by my very undertak- 
ing to be one of Homer's most enraptured admirers, 
I am not a blind one. Perhaps the speech of Achil- 
les given in my specimen is, as you hint, rather too 
much in the moralizing strain to suit so young a man 
and of so much fire. But whether it be or not, in 
the course of the close application that I am forced 
to give to my author, I discover inadvertencies not 
a few, — some perhaps that have escaped even the 
commentators themselves, or perhaps in the enthusi- 
asm of their idolatry they resolved that they should 
pass for beauties. Homer, however, say what they 
will, was man ; and in all the works of man, espe- 
cially in a work of such length and variety, many 
things will of necessity occur that might have been 
better. Pope and Addison had a Dennis ; and Den- 
nis, if I mistake not, held up as he has been to 
scorn and detestation, was a sensible fellow, and 
passed some censures upon both those writers that 
had they been less just would have hurt them less. 
Homer had his Zoilus ; and perhaps if we knew all 
that Zoilus said, we should be forced to acknowledge 
that sometimes, at least, he had reason on his side. 
But it is dangerous to find any fault at all with what 
the world is determined to esteem faultless. 

I rejoice, my dear friend, that you enjoy some 
composure and cheerfulness of spirits. May God 
preserve and increase to you so great a blessing ! 
I am affectionately and truly yours. 

14 



2io THE BEST LETTERS OF 

LXVII. 

UNHEALTHFULNESS OF OLNEY. — STATE OF HIS MIND. 
To the Rev. Jolut Newton. 

August 5, 1786. 

My dear Friend, — I am neither idle nor forget- 
ful ; on the contrary, I think of you often, and my 
thoughts would more frequently find their way to 
my pen, were I not of necessity every day occupied 
in Homer. This long business engrosses all my 
mornings, and when the days grow shorter will have 
all my evenings too ; at present, they are devoted 
to walking, — an exercise to me as necessary as my 
food. 

You have heard of our intended removal. The 
house that is to receive us is in a state of prepara- 
tion, and when finished will be both smarter and 
more commodious than our present abode. But the 
circumstance that recommends it chiefly is its situa- 
tion. Long confinement in the winter, and indeed 
for the most part in the autumn too, has hurt us 
both. A gravel walk, thirty yards long, affords but 
indifferent scope to the locomotive faculty ; yet it 
is all that we have had to move in for eight months 
in the year, during thirteen years that I have been 
a prisoner. Had I been confined in the Tower, the 
battlements of it would have furnished me with a 
larger space. You say well that there was a time when 
I was happy at Olney ; and I am now as happy at 



WILLIAM COWPER. 211 

Olney as I expect to be anywhere without the pres- 
ence of God. Change of situation is with me no 
otherwise an object than as both Mrs. Unwin's 
health and mine may happen to be concerned in it. 
A fever of the slow and spirit-oppressing kind seems 
to belong to all, except the natives who have dwelt 
in Olney many years, — and the natives have putrid 
fevers. Both they and we, I believe, are immediately 
indebted for our respective maladies to an atmos- 
phere incumbered with raw vapors issuing from 
flooded meadows ; and we in particular, perhaps, 
have fared the worse for sitting so often, and some- 
times for months, over a cellar filled with water. 
These ills we shall escape in the uplands, and as we 
may reasonably hope, of course, their consequences. 
But as for happiness, he that has once had com- 
munion with his Maker must be more frantic than 
ever I was yet, if he can dream of finding it at a 
distance from him. I no more expect happiness 
at Weston than here, or than I should expect it in 
company with felons and outlaws in the hold of 
a ballast-lighter. Animal spirits, however, have 
their value, and are especially desirable to him who 
is condemned to carry a burden, which at any rate 
will tire him, but which, without their aid, cannot 
fail to crush him ; the dealings of God with me are 
to myself utterly unintelligible. I have never met, 
either in books or in conversation, with an experi- 
ence at all similar to my own. More than a twelve- 
month has passed since I began to hope that, hav- 
ing walked the whole breadth of the bottom of this 
Red Sea, I was beginning to climb the opposite 



212 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

shore, and I prepared to sing the song of Moses. 
But I have been disappointed, — those hopes have 
been blasted ; those comforts have been wrested 
from me. I could not be so duped, even by the 
arch-enemy himself, as to be made to question the 
divine nature of them ; but I have been made to 
believe (which, you will say, is being duped still 
more) that God gave them to me in derision, and 
took them away in vengeance. Such, however, is 
and has been my persuasion many a long day ; and 
when I shall think on that subject more comfortably, 
or, as you will be inclined to tell me, more ration- 
ally and scripturally, I know not. In the mean 
time I embrace with alacrity every alleviation of 
my case, and with the more alacrity because what- 
soever proves a relief of my distress is a cordial 
to Mrs. Unwin, whose sympathy with me through 
the whole of it has been such that, despair excepted, 
her burden has been as heavy as mine. Lady Hes- 
keth, by her affectionate behavior, the cheerfulness 
of her conversation, and the constant sweetness of her 
temper, has cheered us both, and Mrs. Unwin not less 
than me. By her help we get change of air and of 
scene, though still resident at Olney ; and by her 
means have intercourse with some families in this 
country, with whom, but for her, we could never 
have been acquainted. Her presence here would 
at any time, even in my happiest days, have been 
a comfort to me ; but in the present day I am 
doubly sensible of its value. She leaves nothing 
unsaid, nothing undone, that she thinks will be con- 
ducive to our well-being ; and so far as she is con- 



WILLIAM COWPER. 213 

ceraed, I have nothing to wish, but that I could 
believe her sent hither in mercy to myself, — then 
I should be thankful. 

I understand that Mr. Bull is in town. If you 
should see him and happen to remember it, be so 
good as to tell him that we called at his door yester- 
day evening. All were well, but Mrs. B. and Mr. 
Greatheed were both abroad. 

I am, my dear friend, with Mrs. Unwin's love to 
Mrs. N, and yourself, hers and yours, as ever. 



LXVIII. 

CONCERNING A REPROOF RECEIVED FROM MR. 

NEWTON. 

To the Rev. William Unwin. 

Olney, September 24, 1786. 
My dear William, — ... You have had your 
troubles, and we ours. This day three weeks your 
mother received a letter from Mr. Newton, which she 
has not yet answered, nor is likely to answer hereafter. 
It gave us both much concern, but her more than me, 
— I suppose because, my mind being necessarily oc- 
cupied in my work, I had not so much leisure to 
browse upon the wormwood that it contained. The 
purport of it is a direct accusation of me, and of her 
an accusation implied, that we have both deviated 
into forbidden paths, and lead a life unbecoming the 
Gospel ; that many of my friends in London are 
grieved, and the simple people of Olney astonished ; 



214 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

that he never so much doubted of my restoration 
to Christian privileges as now, — in short, that I 
converse too much with people of the world, and 
find too much pleasure in doing so. He concludes 
with putting your mother in mind that there is still 
an intercourse between London and Olney, — by 
which he means to insinuate that we cannot offend 
against the decorum that we are bound to observe 
but the news of it will most certainly be conveyed 
to him. We do not at all doubt it ; we never knew 
a lie hatched at Olney that waited long for a bearer ; 
and though we do not wonder to find ourselves 
made the subjects of a false accusation in a place 
ever fruitful of such productions, we do and must 
wonder a little that he should listen to them with so 
much credulity. I say this because if he had heard 
only the truth, or had believed no more than the 
truth, he would not, I think, have found either me 
censurable or your mother. And that she should be 
suspected of irregularities is the more wonderful (for 
wonderful it would be at any rate), because she sent 
him not long before a letter conceived in such 
strains of piety and spirituality as ought to have con- 
vinced him that she at least was no wanderer. But 
what is the fact, and how do we spend our [time] in 
reality? What are the deeds for which we have 
been represented as thus criminal? Our present 
course of life differs in nothing from that which we 
have both held these thirteen years, — except that 
after great civilities shown us, and many advances 
made, on the part of the Throcks, we visit them ; 
that we visit also at Gayhurst ; that we have fre- 



WILLIAM COWPER. 215 

quently taken airings with my cousin in her carriage ; 
and that I have sometimes taken a walk with her on 
a Sunday evening, and sometimes by myself (which, 
however, your mother has never done) , — these are 
the only novelties in our practice ; and if by these 
procedures, so inoffensive in themselves, we yet give 
offence, offence must needs be given. God and our 
own consciences acquit us, and we acknowledge no 
other judges. 

The two families with whom we have kicked up 
this astonishing intercourse are as harmless in their 
conversation and manners as can be found anywhere. 
And as to my poor cousin, the only crime that she 
is guilty of against the people of Olney is that she 
has fed the hungry, clothed the naked, and admin- 
istered comfort to the sick, — except indeed that, by 
her great kindness, she has given us a little lift in 
point of condition and circumstances, and has there- 
by excited envy in some who have not the knack of 
rejoicing in the prosperity of others ; and this I take 
to be the root of the matter. 

My dear William, I do not know that I should 
have teased your nerves and spirits with this dis- 
agreeable theme, had not Mr. Newton talked of ap- 
plying to you for particulars. He would have done 
it, he says, when he saw you last, but had not time. 
You are now qualified to inform him as minutely 
as we ourselves could of all our enormities ! Adieu. 

Our sincerest love to yourself and yours. 



2l6 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

LXIX. 
FEELINGS ON REMOVAL FROM OLNEY TO WESTON. 

To the Rev. John Newton. 

Weston Underwood, November 17, 1786. 
My dear Friend, — My usual time of answer- 
ing your letters having been unavoidably engrossed 
by occasions that would not be thrust aside, I 
have been obliged to postpone the payment of 
my debt for a whole week. Even now it is not 
without some difficulty that I discharge it, — which 
you will easily believe when I tell you that this is 
only the second day that has seen us inhabitants 
of our new abode. When God speaks to a chaos, 
it becomes a scene of order and harmony in a 
moment ; but when his creatures have thrown one 
house into confusion by leaving it, and another by 
tumbling themselves and their goods into it, not less 
than many days' labor and contrivance is necessary 
to give them their proper places ; and it belongs to 
furniture of all kinds, however convenient it may be 
in its place, to be a nuisance out of it. We find our- 
selves here in a comfortable dwelling, — such it is 
in itself ; and my cousin, who has spared no expense 
in dressing it up for us, has made it a genteel one, 
— such, at least, it will be when its contents are a 
little harmonized. She left us on Tuesday ; and on 
Wednesday, in the evening, Mrs. Unwin and I took 
possession. I could not help giving a last look 



WILLIAM COWPER. 217 

to my old prison and its precincts, and — though I 
cannot easily account for it, having been miserable 
there so many years — felt something like a heart- 
ache when I took my last leave of a scene that cer- 
tainly in itself had nothing to engage affection. But 
I recollected that I had once been happy there, and 
could not without tears in my eyes bid adieu to a 
place in which God had so often found me. The 
human mind is a great mystery, — mine, at least, ap- 
peared to me to be such upon this occasion. I found 
that I not only had a tenderness for that ruinous 
abode because it had once known me happy in the 
presence of God, but that even the distress I had 
suffered for so long a time on account of his ab- 
sence had endeared it to me as much. I was weary 
of every object, had long wished for a change, yet 
could not take leave without a pang at parting. 
What consequences are to attend our removal God 
only knows. I know well that it is not in situation 
to effect ' a cure of melancholy like mine. The 
change, however, has been entirely a providential 
one ; for much as I wished it, I never uttered that 
wish except to Mrs. Unwin. When I learned that 
the house was to be let, and had seen it, I had a 
strong desire that Lady Hesketh should take it for 
herself, if she should happen to like the country. 
That desire, indeed, is not exactly fulfilled, and yet, 
upon the whole, is exceeded. We are the tenants ; 
but she assures us that we shall often have her for a 
guest ; and here is room enough for us all. You, I 
hope, my dear friend, and Mrs. Newton will want 
no assurances to convince you that you will always 



218 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

be received here with the sincerest welcome. ' More 
welcome than you have been you cannot be ; but 
better accommodated you may and will be. 

I have not proceeded thus far without many in- 
terruptions, and though my paper is small, shall be 
obliged to make my letter still smaller. Our own 
removal is, I believe, the only news of Olney. Con- 
cerning this you will hear much, and much I doubt 
not that will have no truth in it. It is already re- 
ported there, and has been indeed for some time, 
that I am turned Papist. You will know how to 
treat a lie like this, which proves nothing but the 
malignity of its author ; but other tales you may pos- 
sibly hear that will not so readily refute themselves. 
This, however, I trust you will always find true : that 
neither Mrs. Unwin nor myself shall have so con- 
ducted ourselves in our new neighborhood as that 
you shall have any occasion to be grieved on our 
account. 

Mr. Unwin has been ill of a fever at Winchester, 
but by a letter from Mr. Thornton we learn that he 
is recovering, and hopes soon to travel. His Mrs. 
Unwin has joined him at that place. 

Adieu, my dear friend. Mrs. Unwin's affectionate 
remembrances and mine conclude me ever yours. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 219 

LXX. 

COMFORTS OF THE NEW ABODE. 

To Lady Hesketh. 

Weston Lodge, November 26, 1786. 
It is my birthday, my beloved cousin, and I de- 
termine to employ a part of it, that it may not be 
destitute of festivity, in writing to you, The dark, 
thick fog that has obscured it would have been a 
burden to me at Olney, but here I have hardly at- 
tended to it. The neatness and snugness of our 
abode compensate all the dreariness of the season ; 
and whether the ways are wet or dry, our house at 
least is always warm and commodious. Oh for you, 
my cousin, to partake these comforts with us ! I 
will not begin already to tease you upon that subject ; 
but Mrs. Unwin remembers to have heard from your 
own lips that you hate London in the spring. Per- 
haps, therefore, by that time you may be glad to 
escape from a scene which will be every day growing 
more disagreeable, that you may enjoy the comforts 
of the lodge. You well know that the best house 
has a desolate appearance unfurnished. This house 
accordingly, since it has been occupied by us and our 
meubles, is as much superior to what it was when you 
saw it as you can imagine. The parlor is even elegant. 
When I say that the parlor is elegant, I do not mean 
to insinuate that the study is not so. It is neat, 
warm, and silent, and a much better study than I 
deserve if I do not produce in it an incomparable 



220 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

translation of Homer. I think every day of those 
lines of Milton, and congratulate myself on having 
obtained before I am quite superannuated what he 
seems not to have hoped for sooner, — 

•• And may at length my weary age 
Find out the peaceful hermitage ! " 

For if it is not an hermitage, at least it is a much 
better thing ; and you must always understand, my 
dear, that when poets talk of cottages, hermitages, 
and such like things, they mean a house with six 
sashes in front, two comfortable parlors, a smart 
staircase, and three bedchambers of convenient di- 
mensions, — in short, exactly such a house as this. 

The Throckmortons continue the most obliging 
neighbors in the world. One morning last week 
they both went with me to the cliff, — a scene, my 
dear, in which you would delight beyond measure, 
but which you cannot visit except in the spring or 
autumn. The heat of summer and the clinging dirt 
of winter would destroy you. What is called the 
' ; cliff" is no cliff, nor at all like one, but a beautiful 
terrace, sloping gently down to the Ouse, and from 
the brow of which, though not lofty, you have a view 
of such a valley as makes that which you see from 
the hills near Olnev, and which I have had the 
honor to celebrate, — an affair of no consideration. 1 

Wintry as the weather is, do not suspect that it 
confines me. I ramble daily, and every day change 
my ramble. W T herever I go I find short grass un- 
der my feet, and when I have travelled perhaps five 
1 The Task, book i. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 221 

miles, come home with shoes not at all too dirty for 
a drawing-room. I was pacing yesterday under the 
elms that surround the field in which stands the 
great alcove, when, lifting my eyes, I saw two black 
genteel figures bolt through a hedge into the path 
where I was walking. You guess already who they 
were, and that they could be nobody but our neigh- 
bors. They had seen me from a hill at a distance, 
and had traversed a great turnip-field to get at me. 
You see therefore, my dear, that I am in some re- 
quest, — alas ! in too much request with some people. 
The verses of Cadwallader have found me at last. 

I am charmed with your account of our little 
cousin ! at Kensington. If the world does not spoil 
him hereafter, he will be a valuable man. 

Good night, and may God bless thee ! 



LXXI. 

ON THE DEATH OF REV, WILLIAM UNWIN. 

To Lady Hesketh, 

The Lodge, December 4, 1786. 
I sent you, my dear, a melancholy letter, and 
I do not know that I shall now send you one very 
unlike it. Not that anything occurs in consequence 
of our late loss more afflictive than was to be ex- 
pected, but the mind does not perfectly recover 
its tone after a shock like that which has been felt 

1 Lord Cowper. 



22 2 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

so lately. This I observe, that though my experi- 
ence has long since taught me that this is a world 
of shadows, and that it is the more prudent, as well 
as the more Christian, course to possess the com- 
forts that we find in it as if we possessed them not, 
it is no easy matter to reduce this doctrine into 
practice. We forget that that God who gave them 
may, when he pleases, take them away, and that 
perhaps it may please him to take them at a time 
when we least expect, or are least disposed to part 
from them. Thus it has happened in the present case. 
There never was a moment in Unwin's life when 
there seemed to be more urgent want of him than 
the moment in which he died. He had attained 
to an age when, if they are at any time useful, men 
become useful to their families, their friends, and 
the world. His parish began to feel and to be 
sensible of the advantages of his ministry. The 
clergy around him were many of them awed by his 
example. His children were thriving under his 
own tuition and management, and his eldest boy 
is likely to feel his loss severely, being by his years 
in some respect qualified to understand the value 
of such a parent, — by his literary proficiency too 
clever for a schoolboy, and too young at the same 
time for the university. The removal of a man in 
the prime of life of such a character, and with such 
connections, seems to make a void in society that 
can never be filled. God seemed to have made 
him just what he was that he might be a blessing 
to others, and when the influence of his character 
and abilities began to be felt, removed him. These 



WILLIAM COWPER. 223 

are mysteries, my dear, that we cannot contemplate 
without astonishment, but which will nevertheless 
be explained hereafter, and must in the mean time 
be revered in silence. It is well for his mother that 
she has spent her life in the practice of an habitual 
acquiescence in the dispensations of Providence, 
else I know that this stroke would have been 
heavier, after all that she has suffered upon another 
account, than she could have borne. She derives, 
as she well may, great consolation from the thought 
that he lived the life and died the death of a Chris- 
tian. The consequence is, if possible, more un- 
avoidable than the most mathematical conclusion 
that therefore he is happy. So farewell, my friend 
Unwin ! the first man for whom I conceived a 
friendship after my removal from St. Alban's, and 
for whom I cannot but still continue to feel a 
friendship, though I shall see thee with these eyes 
no more ! 



LXXII. 

MIS RECENT ILLNESS . — DREAMS — FIRST ACQUAINT- 
ANCE WITH MR. ROSE. 

To Lady Hesketh. 

The Lodge, January 18, 1787. 
I have been so much indisposed with the fever 
that I told you had seized me, my nights during the 
whole week may be said to have been almost sleep- 
less. The consequence has been that except about 
thirty lines at the conclusion of the thirteenth book, 



224 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

I have been forced to abandon Homer entirely. 
This was a sensible mortification to me, as you may 
suppose, and felt the more because, my spirits of 
course failing with my strength, I seemed to have 
peculiar need of my old amusement. It seemed 
hard, therefore, to be forced to resign it just when I 
wanted it most. But Homer's battles cannot be 
fought by a man who does not sleep well, and who 
has not some little degree of animation in the day- 
time. Last night, however, quite contrary to my 
expectations, the fever left me entirely, and I slept 
quietly, soundly, and long. If it please God that 
it return not, I shall soon find myself in a condition 
to proceed. I walk constantly, that is to say, Mrs. 
Unwin and I together ; for at these times I keep 
her continually employed, and never suffer her to 
be absent from me many minutes. She gives me all 
her time and all her attention, and forgets that there 
is another object in the world. 

Mrs. Carter thinks on the subject of dreams as 
everybody else does ; that is to say, according to 
her own experience. She has had no extraordinary 
ones, and therefore accounts them only the ordi- 
nary operations of the fancy. Mine are of a tex- 
ture that will not suffer me to ascribe them to so 
inadequate a cause, or to any cause but the opera- 
tion of an exterior agency. I have a mind, my 
dear (and to you I will venture to boast of it), as 
free from superstition as any man living ; neither do 
I give heed to dreams in general as predictive, though 
particular dreams I believe to be so. Some very 
sensible persons, and I suppose Mrs. Carter among 



WILLIAM COWPER. 225 

them, will acknowledge that in old times God spoke 
by dreams, but affirm with much boldness that he 
has since ceased to do so. . If you ask them why ? 
they answer, because he has now revealed his will 
in the Scripture, and there is no longer any need 
that he should instruct or admonish us by dreams. 
I grant that with respect to doctrines and precepts 
he has left us in want of nothing ; but has he thereby 
precluded himself in any of the operations of his 
Providence ? Surely not. It is perfectly a different 
consideration ; and the same need that there ever 
was of his interference in this way, there is still, and 
ever must be, while man continues blind and falli- 
ble, and a creature beset with dangers which he can 
neither foresee nor obviate. His operations how- 
ever of this kind are, I allow, very rare ; and as to 
the generality of dreams, they are made of such 
stuff, and are in themselves so insignificant, that 
though I believe them all to be the manufacture 
of others, not our own, I account it not a farthing- 
matter who manufactures them. So much for 
dreams ! 

My fever is not yet gone, but sometimes seems to 
leave me. It is altogether of the nervous kind, and 
attended now and then with much dejection. 

A young gentleman called here yesterday, who 
came six miles out of his way to see me. He was 
on a journey to London from Glasgow, having just 
left the university there. He came, I suppose, 
partly to satisfy his own curiosity, but chiefly, as it 
seemed, to bring me the thanks of some of the 
Scotch professors for my two volumes. His name 
*5 



226 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

is Rose, an Englishman. Your spirits being good, 
you will derive more pleasure from this incident 
than I can at present, therefore I send it. 
Adieu, very affectionately. 1 



I.XXIU. 

THANKS FOR A COPY OK BURNS. 
To Samuel Rose, Esq. 

W i STON, July 24, 1787. 

Df.ar Sir, — This is the first time I have written 
these six months, and nothing but the constraint 
of obligation could induce me to write now. I can- 
not be so wanting to myself as not to endeavor at 
least to thank you both for the visits with winch 
you have favored me, and the poems that you sent 
me ; in my present state of mind 1 taste nothing, 
nevertheless I read, partly from habit, and partly 
because it is the only thing that I am capable oi\ 

I have therefore read Burns'^ poems, and have 
read them twice ; and though they be written in a 
language that is new to me, and many of them on 
subjects much inferior to the author's ability, I think 
them on the whole a very extraordinary production. 
He is, I believe, the only poet these kingdoms have 
produced in the lower rank of life since Shakespeare 

1 These were the hist lines that Cowper wrote before bis 
malady returned upon him with full force There is no other 
account of it than the little which is said in his own letters 
after his recovery 



WILLIAM COWPER. 227 

(I should rather say since Prior) who need not be 
indebted for any part of his praise to a charitable 
consideration of his origin, and the disadvantages 
under which he has labored. It will be pity if he 
should not hereafter divest himself of barbarism, 
and content himself with writing pure English, in 
which he appears perfectly qualified to excel. He 
who can command admiration, dishonors himself 
if he aims no higher than to raise a laugh. 

I am, dear sir, with my best wishes for your pros- 
perity, and with Mrs. Unwin's respects, 

Your obliged and affectionate humble servant. 



LXXIV. 

ARRIVAL OF A NEW VICAR AT OLNEY. — A NEW 
CORRESPONDENT. 

To the Rev. John Newton. 

March 3, 1788. 

My dear Friend, — I had not, as you may 
imagine, read more than two or three lines of the 
inclosed, before I perceived that I had accidentally 
come to the possession of another man's property, 
who, by the same misadventure, has doubtless occu- 
pied mine. I accordingly folded it again the mo- 
ment after having opened it, and now return it. 

The bells of Olney both last night and this morn- 
ing have announced the arrival of Mr. Bean. I 
understand that he is now come with his family. 
It will not be long, therefore, before we shall be 



228 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

acquainted. I rather wish than hope that he may 
find himself comfortably situated ; but the parishion- 
ers' admiration of Mr. Canniford, whatever the bells 
may say, is no good omen. It is hardly to be 
expected that the same people should admire both. 
The parishioners of Ran'stone have been suitors to 
Mr. Finch that he would appoint that gentleman 
his curate, to which suit of theirs Mr. Finch has 
graciously condescended, and he is gone to reside 
among them. 

I have lately been engaged in a correspondence 
with a lady whom I never saw ; she lives at Perten- 
hall, near Kimbolton, and is the wife of a Dr. King, 
who has the living. She is, I understand, very 
happy in her husband, who for that reason, I should 
suppose, is at least no enemy to the Gospel, for she 
is evidently herself a Christian, and a very gracious 
one. I would that she had you for a correspondent 
rather than me. One letter from you would do her 
more good than a ream of mine. But so it is ; 
and since I cannot depute my office to you, and am 
bound by all sorts of considerations to answer her 
this evening, I must necessarily quit you, that I may 
have time to do it. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 229 

LXXV. 

SONG ON THE SLAVE-TRADE. - HANNAH MORE. 
To Lady Hesketh. 

The Lodge, March 31, 1788. 

My dearest Cousin, — Mrs. Throckmorton has 
promised to write to me. T. beg that as often as 
you shall see her you will give her a smart pinch 
and say, "Have you written to my cousin?" I 
build all my hopes of her performance on this expe- 
dient, and for so doing these my letters, not patent, 
shall be your sufficient warrant. You are thus to 
give her the question till she shall answer "Yes." 

I have written one more song, and sent it ; it is 
called the "Morning Dream," and may be sung 
to the tune of "Tweed-Side," or any other tune 
that will suit it, for I am not nice on that subject. 
I would have copied it for you had I not almost 
filled my sheet without it ; but now, my dear, you 
must stay till the sweet sirens of London shall bring 
it to you, or if that happy day should never arrive, 
I hereby acknowledge myself your debtor to that 
amount. I shall now probably cease to sing of tor- 
tured negroes, — a theme which never pleased me, 
but which, in the hope of doing them some little 
service, I was not unwilling to handle. 

If anything could have raised Miss More to a 
higher place in my opinion than she possessed 
before, it could only be your information that, after 



230 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

all, she, and not Mr. Wilberforce, is author of that 
volume. 1 How comes it to pass that she, being a 
woman, writes with a force and energy and a cor- 
rectness hitherto arrogated by the men, and not 
very frequently displayed even by the men them- 
selves ? Adieu. 



LXXVI. 

ON THE LOSS OF HIS LIBRARY. — PRINTS OF CRAZY 
KATE AND THE LACEMAKER. 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. 

Weston, May 8, 1788. 
Alas, my library ! I must now give it up for a 
lost thing forever. The only consolation belong- 
ing to the circumstance is, or seems to be, that no 
such loss did ever befall any other man, or can 
ever befall me again. As far as books are con- 
cerned I am 

Totus teres atque rotundus, 

and may set fortune at defiance. The books which 
had been my father's had most of them his arms 
on the inside cover, but the rest no mark, neither 
his name nor mine. I could mourn for them like 
Sancho for his Dapple, but it would avail me 
nothing. 

You will oblige me much by sending me " Crazy 
Kate." A gentleman last winter promised me both 
her and the " Lacemaker ; " but he went to London, 

] The Manners of the Great. 



WILLIAM COW PER. 231 

— that place in which, as in the grave, "all things 
are forgotten," — and I have never seen either of 
them. 1 

I begin to find some prospect of a conclusion of 
the Iliad, at least, now opening upon me, having 
reached the eighteenth book. Your letter found 
me yesterday in the very fact of dispersing the 
whole host of Troy by the voice only of Achilles. 
There is nothing extravagant in the idea, for you 
have witnessed a similar effect attending even such 
a voice as mine at midnight from a garret window, 
on the dogs of a whole parish, whom I have put to 
Sight in a moment. 



LXXVIL 

THANKS FOR THE PRINTS. —ON THE NINETEENTH 
BOOK OF THE ILIAD, 

To Joseph HilL Esq. 

May 24. 178S. 
My dear Friend, — For two excellent prints I 
return you my sincere acknowledgments. I can- 
not say that poor Kate resembles much the origi- 
nal, who was neither so young nor so handsome 
as the pencil has represented her : but she was 
a figure well suited to the account given of her 
in "The Task,' - ' and has a face exceedingly expres- 
sive of despairing melancholy. The lacemaker is 



1 He alludes to engravings of these two characters from 
"The Task." which had been made and become popular. 



232 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

accidentally a good likeness of a young woman once 
our neighbor, who was hardly less handsome than 
the picture twenty years ago : but the loss of one 
husband and the acquisition of another have since 
that time impaired her much ; yet she might still be 
supposed to have sat to the artist. 1 

We dined yesterday with your friend and mine, 
the most companionable and domestic Mr. C. 2 The 
whole kingdom can hardly furnish a spectacle more 
pleasing to a man who has a taste for true happiness 
than himself, Mrs. C, and their multitudinous fam- 
ily. Seven long miles are interposed between us, 
or perhaps I should oftener have an opportunity of 
declaiming, on this subject. 

I am now in the nineteenth book of the Iliad, and 
on the point of displaying such feats of heroism per- 
formed by Achilles as make all other achievements 
trivial. I may well exclaim, " Oh, for a muse of fire ! " 
especially having not only a great host to cope with, 
but a great river also ; much, however, may be done 
when Homer leads the way. I should not have 
chosen to have been the original author of such a 
business, even though all the Nine had stood at my 
elbow. Time has wonderful effects. We admire 
that in an ancient for which we should send a mod- 
ern bard to Bedlam. 

I saw at Mr. C.'s a great curiosity, — an antique 
bust of Paris in Parian marble. You will conclude 
that it interested me exceedingly. I pleased myself 
with supposing that it once stood in Helen's cham- 

1 Both characters were portraits drawn from real life. 

2 Mr. Chester of Chichely, near Newport-Pagnel. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 233 

ber. It was in fact brought from the Levant, and 
though not well mended (for it had suffered much 
by time), is an admirable performance. 



LXXVIII. 

ANTICIPATING A VISIT -THURLOW - BEAU AND THE 
WATER-LILY 

To Lady Hesketh. 

The Lodge, June 27, 1788. 

For the sake of a longer visit, my dearest coz, 
I can be well content to wait. The country — this 
country, at least — is pleasant at all times ; and when 
winter is come, or near at hand, we shall have the 
better chance of being snug. I know your passion 
for retirement indeed, or for what we call deedy re- 
tirement ; and the F s intending to return to 

Bath with their mother when her visit at the Hall is 
over, you will then find here exactly the retirement 
in question. I have made in the orchard the best 
winter-walk in all the parish, sheltered from the 
east and from the northeast, and open to the sun, 
except at his rising, all the day. Then we will have 
Homer and Don Quixote ; and then we will have 
saunter and chat, and one laugh more before we die. 
Our orchard is alive with creatures of all kinds : 
poultry of every denomination swarms in it, and pigs 
the drollest in the world. 

I rejoice that we have a cousin Charles also, as well 
as a cousin Henry, who has had the address to win 



234 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

the good-likings of the Chancellor. May he fare 
the better for it ! As to myself, I have long since 
ceased to have any expectations from that quarter. 
Yet, if he were indeed mortified as you say (and no 
doubt you have particular reasons for thinking so), 
and repented to that degree of his hasty exertions in 
favor of the present occupant (who can tell?), he 
wants neither means nor management, but can easily 
at some future period redress the evil, if he chooses 
to do it. But in the mean time life steals away, and 
shortly neither he will be in circumstances to do me 
a kindness, nor I to receive one at his hands. Let 
him make haste, therefore, or he will die a promise 
in my debt which he will never be able to perform. 1 
Your communications on this subject are as safe as 
you can wish them. We divulge nothing but what 
might appear in the magazine, nor that without 
great consideration. 

I must tell you a feat of my dog Beau. Walking 
by the river side, I observed some water-lilies float- 
ing at a little distance from the bank. They are a 
large white flower, with an orange-colored eye, very 
beautiful. I had a desire to gather one, and having 
your long cane in my hand, by the help of it en- 
deavored to bring one of them within my reach. 
But the attempt proved vain, and I walked forward. 
Beau had all the while observed me attentively. Re- 
turning soon after toward the same place, I observed 
him plunge into the river while I was about forty 
yards' distance from him ; and when I had nearly 

1 An allusion to his youthful promise to make some pro- 
vision for Cowper when he should become Lord Chancellor. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 235 

reached the spot he swam to land with a lily in his 
mouth, which he came and laid at my foot. 1 

Mr. Rose, whom I have mentioned to you as a 
visitor of mine for the first time soon after you left 
us, writes me word that he has seen my ballads 
against the slave-mongers, but not in print. 2 Where 
he met with them I know not. Mr. Bull begged 
hard for leave to print them at Newport- Pagnel, and 
I refused, thinking that it would be wrong to anti- 
cipate the nobility, gentry, and others at whose 
pressing instance I composed them, in their design 
to print them. But perhaps I need not have been 
so squeamish ; for the opportunity to publish them 
in London seems now not only ripe, but rotten. I 
am well content. There is but one of them with 
which I am myself satisfied, though I have heard 
them all well spoken of. But there are very few 
things of my own composition that I can endure to 
read when they have been written a month, though 
at first they seem to me to be all perfection. 

Mrs. Unwin, who has been much the happier since 
the time of your return hither has been in some sort 
settled, begs me to make her kindest remembrance. 
Yours, my dear, most truly. 

1 This incident also forms the subject of one of his poems. 

2 These were never printed as ballads, but were included 
later with his poems. 



236 THE BEST LETTERS OF 



LXXIX. 

THE LIME-WALK. — FIVE HUNDRED CELEBRATED LIV- 
ING AUTHORS; HIS OWN RANK AMONG THEM, 

To Lady Hesketh. 

The Lodge, July 28, 1788. 
It is in vain that you tell me you have no talent 
at description, while in fact you describe better 
than anybody. You have given me a most com- 
plete idea of your mansion and its situation ; and 
I doubt not that with your letter in my hand by 
way of map, could I be set down on the spot in a 
moment, I should find myself qualified to take my 
walks and my pastime in whatever quarter of your 
paradise it should please me the most to visit. We 
also, as you know, have scenes at Weston worthy of 
description j but because you know them well, I will 
only say that one of them has, within these few days, 
been much improved, — I mean the lime-walk. By 
the help of the axe and the wood-bill, which have 
of late been constantly employed in cutting out all 
straggling branches that intercepted the arch, Mr. 
Throckmorton has now defined it with such exact- 
ness that no cathedral in the world can show one of 
more magnificence or beauty. I bless myself that I 
live so near it ; for were it distant several miles, it 
would be well worth while to visit it, merely as an ob- 
ject of taste, not to mention the refreshment of such 
a gloom both to the eyes and the spirits. And 
these are the things which our modern improvers of 
parks and pleasure-grounds have displaced without 



WILLIAM COWPER. 237 

mercy, because, forsooth, they are rectilinear ! It is 
a wonder they do not quarrel with the sunbeams for 
the same reason. 

Have y.ou seen the account of Five hundred cele- 
brated authors now living? I am one of them, but 
stand charged with the high crime and misdemeanor 
of totally neglecting method, — an accusation which, 
if the gentleman would take the pains to read me, 
he would find sufficiently refuted. I am conscious 
at least of having labored much in the arrangement 
of my matter, and of having given to the several parts 
of my book of " The Task," as well as to each poem 
in the first volume, that sort of slight connection 
which poetry demands ; for in poetry (except pro- 
fessedly of the didactic kind) a logical precision 
would be stiff, pedantic, and ridiculous. But there 
is no pleasing some critics ; the comfort is that I am 
contented whether they be pleased or not. At the 
same time, to my honor be it spoken, the chronicler 
of us five hundred prodigies bestows on me, for 
aught I know, more commendations than on any 
other of my confraternity. May he live to write the 
histories of as many thousand poets, and find me the 
very best among them ! Amen ! 

I join with you, my dearest coz, in wishing that 
I owned the fee-simple of all the beautiful scenes 
around you ; but such emoluments were never de- 
signed for poets. Am I not happier than ever poet 
was in having thee for my cousin, and in the expec- 
tation of thy arrival here whenever Strawberry Hill l 
shall lose thee ? Ever thine. 

1 Lady Hesketh was the guest of Horace Walpole at Straw- 
berry Hill at this time. 



238 THE BEST LETTERS OF 



LXXX. 

COMPLETION OF THE ILIAD, AND BEGINNING OF THE 
ODYSSEY. 

To Samuel Rose, Esq. 

Weston, September 25, 1788. 
My dear Friend : 

Say what is the thing by my riddle design'd 
Which you carried to London, and yet left behind? 

I expect your answer, and without a fee. The half 
hour next before breakfast I devote to you. The 
moment Mrs. Unwin arrives in the study, be what 
I have written much or little, I shall make my bow 
and take leave. If you live to be a judge, as if 
I augur right you will, I shall expect to hear of a 
walking circuit. 

I was shocked at what you tell me of . Su- 
perior talents, it seems, give no security for pro- 
priety of conduct ; on the contrary, having a natural 
tendency to nourish pride, they often betray the 
possessor into such mistakes as men more moder- 
ately gifted never commit. Ability, therefore, is 
not wisdom, and an ounce of grace is a better guard 
against gross absurdity than the brightest talents in 
the world. 

I rejoice that you are prepared for transcript 
work : here will be plenty for you. The day on 
which you shall receive this I beg you will remem- 
ber to drink one glass at least to the success of the 
Iliad, which I finished the day before yesterday, 



WILLIAM COWPER. 239 

and yesterday began the Odyssey. It will be 
some time before I shall perceive myself travelling 
in another road ; the objects around me are at pres- 
ent so much the same : Olympus and a council of 
gods meet me at my first entrance. To tell you the 
truth, I am weary of heroes and deities, and, with 
reverence be it spoken, shall be glad, for variety's 
sake, to exchange their company for that of a 
Cyclops. 

Weston has not been without its tragedies since 
you left us. Mr. Throckmorton's piping bullfinch 
has been eaten by a rat, and the villain left nothing 
but poor Bully's beak behind him. It will be a 
wonder if this event does not at some convenient 
time employ my versifying passion. Did ever fair 
lady, from the Lesbia of Catullus to the present 
day, lose her bird and find no poet to commemo- 
rate the loss? 



LXXXI. 

ACCOUNT OF HIS OCCUPATIONS BEFORE HE UNDER- 
TOOK POETRY. 

To Mrs. King. 

Weston Underwood, October n, 1788. 
My dear Madam, — You are perfectly secure from 
all danger of being overwhelmed with presents from 
me. It is not much that a poet can possibly have 
it in his power to give. When he has presented his 
own works, he may be supposed to have exhausted 



240 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

all means of donation. They are his only superflu- 
ity. There was a time, but that time was before 
I commenced writer for the press, when I amused 
myself in a way somewhat similar to yours, allowing, 
I mean, for the difference between masculine and 
female operations. The scissors and the needle are 
your chief implements ; mine were the chisel and 
the saw. In those days you might have been in 
some danger of too plentiful a return for your 
favors. Tables, such as they were, and joint stools, 
such as never were, might have travelled to Perten- 
hall in most inconvenient abundance. But I have 
long since discontinued this practice, and many 
others which I found it necessary to adopt, that 
I might escape the worst of all evils, both in itself 
and in its consequences, — an idle life. Many arts 
I have exercised with this view, for which Nature 
never designed me ; though among them were some 
in which I arrived at considerable proficiency, by 
mere dint of the most heroic perseverance. There 
is not a 'squire in all this country who can boast 
of having made better squirrel -houses, hutches for 
rabbits, or bird-cages, than myself; and in the 
article of cabbage-nets I had no superior. I even 
had the hardiness to take in hand the pencil, and 
studied a whole year the art of drawing. Many 
figures were the fruit of my labors, which had at 
least the merit of being unparalleled by any pro- 
duction either of art or nature. But before the 
year was ended, I had occasion to wonder at the 
progress that may be made, in despite of natural 
deficiency, by dint alone of practice ; for I actually 



WILLIAM COWPER. 241 

produced three landscapes which a lady thought 
worthy to be framed and glazed. I then judged 
it high time to exchange this occupation for another, 
lest, by any subsequent productions of inferior merit, 
I should forfeit the honor I had so fortunately ac- 
quired. But gardening was, of all employments, 
that in which I succeeded best, — though even in 
this I did not suddenly attain perfection. I began 
with lettuces and cauliflowers ; from them I pro- 
ceeded to cucumbers ; next, to melons. I then 
purchased an orange-tree, to which, in due time, 
I added two or three myrtles. These served me 
day and night with employment during a whole 
severe winter. To defend them from the frost, 
in a situation that exposed them to its severity, 
cost me much ingenuity and much attendance. I 
contrived to give them a fire heat; and have waded 
night after night through the snow, with the bellows 
under my arm, just before going to bed, to give the 
latest possible puff to the embers, lest the frost 
should seize them before morning. Very minute 
beginnings have sometimes important consequences. 
From nursing two or three little evergreens, I be- 
came ambitious of a greenhouse, and accordingly 
built one, which, verse excepted, afforded me amuse- 
ment for a longer time than any expedient of all 
the many to which I have fled for refuge from 
the misery of having nothing to do. When I left 
Olney for Weston, I could no longer have a green- 
house of my own, but in a neighbor's garden I find 
a better, of which the sole management is consigned 
to me. 

16 



242 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

I had need take care, when I begin a letter, that 
the subject with which I set off be of some impor- 
tance ; for before I can exhaust it, be it what it 
may, I have generally filled my paper. But self is 
a subject inexhaustible, which is the reason that 
though I have said little or nothing, I am afraid, 
worth your hearing, I have only room to add that 
I am, my dear madam, 

Most truly yours. 

Mrs. Unwin bids me present her best compli- 
ments, and say how much she shall be obliged to 
you for the receipt to make that most excellent 
cake which came hither in its native pan. There 
is no production of yours that will not always be 
most welcome at Weston. 



LXXXII. 

CHANGES, ESPECIALLY AT THE PLACE OF HIS BIRTH 

To Mrs. King. 

Weston Underwood, December 6, 1788. 
My dear Madam, — It must, if you please, be 
a point agreed between us that we will not make 
punctuality in writing the test of our regard for 
each other, lest we should incur the danger of pro- 
nouncing and suffering by an unjust sentence, and 
this mutually. I have told you, I believe, that the 
half hour before breakfast is my only letter-writing 
opportunity. In summer I rise rather early, and 



WILLIAM COWPER. 243 

consequently at that season can find more time for 
scribbling than at present. If I enter my study 
now before nine, I find all at sixes and sevens ; for 
servants will take, in part at least, the liberty claimed 
by their masters. That you may not suppose us all 
sluggards alike, it is necessary, however, that I 
should add a word or two on this subject in justifi- 
cation of Mrs. Unwin, who, because the days are too 
short for the important concerns of knitting stock- 
ings and mending them, rises generally by candle- 
light, — a practice so much in the style of all the 
ladies of antiquity who were good for anything that 
it is impossible not to applaud it. 

Mrs. Battison 1 being dead, I began to fear that 
you would have no more calls to Bedford ; but the 
marriage, so near at hand, of the young lady you 
mention with a gentleman of that place, gives me 
hope again that you may occasionally approach us 
as heretofore, and that on some of those occasions 
you will perhaps find your way to Weston. The 
deaths of some, and the marriages of others, make 
a new world of it every thirty years. Within that 
space of time the majority are displaced and a new 
generation has succeeded. Here and there one is 
permitted to stay a little longer, that there may not 
be wanting a few grave dons like myself to make 
the observation. This thought struck me very 
forcibly the other day on reading a paper called 
the " County Chronicle," which came hither in the 
package of some books from London. It contained 

1 A relative of Mrs. King's whom she had been accustomed 
to visit at Bedford. 



244 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

news from Hertfordshire, and informed me, among 
other things, that at Great Berkhampstead, the 
place of my birth, there is hardly a family left of 
all those with whom, in my earlier days, I was so 
familiar. The houses, no doubt, remain, but the 
inhabitants are only to be found now by their grave- 
stones ; and it is certain that I might pass through 
a town, in which I was once a sort of principal 
figure, unknowing and unknown. They are happy 
who have not taken up their rest in a world fluctuat- 
ing as the sea, and passing away with the rapidity 
of a river. I wish from my heart that yourself and 
Mr. King may long continue, as you have already 
long continued, exceptions from the general truth 
of this remark. You doubtless married early, and 
the thirty-six years elapsed may have yet other 
years to succeed them ; I do not forget that your 
relation Mrs. Battison lived to the age of eighty-six. 
I am glad of her longevity, because it seems to 
afford some assurances of yours, and I hope to 
know you better yet before you die. 

Should you again dream of an interview with me, 
I hope you will have the precaution to shut all doors 
and windows, that no such impertinents as those 
you mention may intrude a second time. It is hard 
that people who never meet awake, cannot come 
together even in sleep without disturbance. We 
might, I think, be ourselves untroubled at a time 
when we are so incapable of giving trouble to 
others, even had we the inclination. 

I have never seen "The Observer," but am pleased 
with being handsomely spoken of by an old school- 



WILLIAM COWPER. 245 

fellow. Cumberland 1 and I boarded together in the 
same house at Westminster. He was at that time 
clever, and I suppose has given proof sufficient to 
the world that he is still clever ; but of all that he 
has written, it has never fallen in my way to read a 
syllable, except perhaps in a magazine or review, 
— the sole sources at present of all my intelligence. 
Addison speaks of persons who grow dumb in the 
study of eloquence, and I have actually studied 
Homer till I am become a mere ignoramus in every 
other province of literature. 

An almost general cessation of egg-laying among 
the hens has made it impossible for Mrs. Unwin 
to enterprise a cake. She however returns you a 
thousand thanks for the receipt; and being now 
furnished with the necessary ingredients, will begin 
directly. My letter-writing time is spent, and I must 
now to Homer. With my best respects to Mr. King, 
I remain, dear madam, 

Most affectionately yours. 

When I wrote last I told you, I believe, that Lady 
Hesketh was with us. She is with us now, making 
a cheerful winter for us at Weston. The acquisi- 
tion of a new friend, and, at a late day, the recovery 
of the friend of our youth, are two of the chief 
comforts of which this life is susceptible. 

1 Author of a series of essays called " The Observer." 



246 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

LXXXIII. 

MRS. UNWIN'S ACCIDENT.— THE KING'S ILLNESS. 

To Mrs. King. 

Weston, January 29, 1789. 

My dear Madam, — This morning I said to Mrs. 
Unwin : " I must write to Mrs. King ; her long 
silence alarms me : something has happened." 
These words of mine proved only a prelude to the 
arrival of your messenger with his most welcome 
charge, for which I return you my sincerest thanks. 
You have sent me the very things I wanted, and 
which I should have continued to want had not you 
sent them. As often as the wine is set on the table 
I have said to myself, " This is all very well ; but I 
have no bottle-stands." And myself as often re- 
plied, "No matter ; you can make shift without 
them." Thus I and myself have conferred together 
many a day ; and you, as if you had been privy to 
the conference, have kindly supplied the deficiency, 
and put an end to the debate forever. 

When your messenger arrived I was beginning to 
dress for dinner, being engaged to dine with my 
neighbor Mr. Throckmorton, from whose house I am 
just returned, and snatch a. few moments before sup- 
per to tell you how much I am obliged to you. You 
will not, therefore, find me very prolix at present ; 
but it shall not be long before you shall hear further 
from me. Your honest old neighbor sleeps under 



WILLIAM COWPER. 247 

our roof, and will be gone in the morning before I 
shall have seen him. 

I have more items than one by which to remem- 
ber the late frost : it has cost me the bitterest un- 
easiness. Mrs. Unwin got a fall on the gravel-walk 
covered with ice, which has confined her to an up- 
per chamber ever since. She neither broke nor dis- 
located any bones, but received such a contusion 
below the hip as crippled her completely. She now 
begins to recover, after having been helpless as 
a child for a whole fortnight, but so slowly at 
present that her amendment is even now almost 
imperceptible. 

Engaged, however, as I am with my own private 
anxieties, I yet find leisure to interest myself 
not a little in the distresses of the royal family, 
especially in those of the Queen. 1 The Lord Chan- 
cellor called the other morning on Lord Stafford ; 
entering the room, he threw his hat on the sofa 
at the fireside, and clasping his hands, said, " I 
have heard of distress, and I have read of it ; 
but I never saw distress equal to that of the 
Queen." This I know from particular and cer- 
tain authority. 

My dear madam, I have not time to enlarge at 
present on this subject, or to touch any other. Once 
more, therefore, thanking you for your kindness, of 
which I am truly sensible, and thanking, too, Mr. 
King for the favor he has done me in subscribing to 
my Homer, and at the same time begging you to 

1 Because of the temporary insanity of the King, 
George III. 



248 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

make my best compliments to him, I conclude my- 
self, with Mrs. Unwin's acknowledgments of your 
most acceptable present to her, 

Your obliged and affectionate. 



LXXXIV. 

ON HIS ABSORPTION IN HOMER 

To the Rev. Walte7- Bagot. 

Weston, January 29, 1789. 

My dear Friend, — I shall be a better, at least 
a more frequent, correspondent when I have done 
with Homer. I am not forgetful of any letters that 
I owe, and least of all forgetful of my debts in that 
way to you ; on the contrary, I live in a continual 
state of self-reproach for not writing more punctually ; 
but the old Grecian, whom I charge myself never to 
neglect, lest I should never finish him, has at present 
a voice that seems to drown all other demands, and 
many to which I could listen with more pleasure 
than even his os rotundum. I am now in the elev- 
enth book of the Odyssey, conversing with the dead. 
Invoke the Muse in my behalf, that I may roll the 
stone of Sisyphus with some success. To do it as 
Homer has done it is, I suppose, in our verse and 
language, impossible ; but I will hope not to labor 
altogether to as little purpose as Sisyphus himself 
did. 

Though I meddle little with politics, and can find 
but little leisure to do so, the present state of things 



WILLIAM COWPER. 249 

unavoidably engages a share of my attention. But 
as they say Archimedes, when Syracuse was taken, 
was found busied in the solution of a problem, so, 
come what may, I shall be found translating 
Homer. Sincerely yours. 



LXXXV. 

DISSATISFACTION WITH HIS OWN WRITING. -UNCON- 
SCIOUS PLAGIARISM. 

To Samuel Rose, Esq. 

The Lodge, May 20, 1789. 

My dear Sir, — Finding myself, between twelve 
and one, at the end of the seventeenth book of the 
Odyssey, I give the interval between the present 
moment and the time of walking to you. If I write 
letters before I sit down to Homer, I feel my spirits 
too flat for poetry, and too flat for letter-writing if I 
address myself to Homer first ; but the last I choose 
as the least evil, because my friends will pardon my 
dulness, but the public will not. 

I had been some days uneasy on your account, 
when yours arrived. We should have rejoiced to 
have seen you, would your engagements have per- 
mitted ; but in the autumn I hope, if not before, we 
shall have the pleasure to receive you. At what 
time we may expect Lady Hesketh, at present I 
know not, but imagine that at any time after the 
month of June you will be sure to find her with us, 
— which I mention knowing that to meet you will 



250 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

add a relish to all the pleasures she can find at 
Weston. 

When I wrote those lines on the Queen's visit I 
thought I had performed well ; but it belongs to me, 
as I have told you before, to dislike whatever I write 
when it has been written a month ; the performance 
was therefore sinking in my esteem when your ap- 
probation of it, arriving in good time, buoyed it up 
again. It will now keep possession of the place it 
holds in my good opinion because it has been 
favored with yours ; and a copy will certainly be at 
your service whenever you choose to have one. 

Nothing is more certain than that when I wrote 
the line, — 

God made the country, and man made the town, 

I had not the least recollection of that very similar 
one which you quote from Hawkins Browne. It 
convinces me that critics (and none more than War- 
ton in his notes on Milton's minor poems) have 
often charged authors with borrowing what they 
drew from their own fund. Browne was an enter- 
taining companion when he had drunk his bottle, 
but not before ; this proved a snare to him, and he 
would sometimes drink too much ; but I know not 
that he was chargeable with any other irregularities. 
He had those among his intimates who would not 
have been such had he been otherwise viciously in- 
clined, — the Buncombes in particular, father and 
son, who were of unblemished morals. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 251 



LXXXVI. 

STANZAS ON THE QUEEN'S VISIT TO LONDON PRE- 
SENTED TO HER MAJESTY. 

To Mrs. King. 

Weston, May 30, 1789. 

Dearest Madam, — Many thanks for your kind 
and valuable despatches, none of which, except your 
letter, I have yet had time to read ; for true it is, 
and a sad truth too, that I was in bed when your 
messenger arrived. He waits only for my answer, 
for which reason I answer as speedily as I can. 

I am glad if my poetical packet pleased you. 
Those stanzas on the Queen's visit were presented 
some time since, by Miss Goldsworthy, to the Prin- 
cess Augusta, who has probably given them to the 
Queen ; but of their reception I have heard nothing. 
I gratified myself by complimenting two sovereigns 
whom I love and honor ; and that gratification will 
be my reward. It would, indeed, be unreasonable 
to expect that persons who keep a Laureate in con- 
stant pay, should have either praise or emolument 
to spare for every volunteer scribbler who may 
choose to make them his subject. 

Mrs. Unwin, who is much obliged to you for your 
inquiries, is but little better since I wrote last. No 
person ever recovered more imperceptibly ; yet cer- 
tain it is that she does recover. I am persuaded 
myself that, though it was not suspected at the time, 
the thigh-bone was longitudinally fractured ; and she 



252 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

is of my opinion. Much time is requisite to the 
restoration of a bone so injured, and nothing can be 
done to expedite the cure. My mother-in-law broke 
her leg-bone in the same manner, and was long a 
cripple. The only comfort in the present case is 
that had the bone been broken transversely, the 
consequences must probably have been mortal. 

I will take the greatest care of the papers with 
which you have intrusted me, and will return them 
by the next opportunity. It is very unfortunate 
that the people of Bedford should choose to have 
the small-pox just at the season when it would be 
sure to prevent our meeting. God only knows, 
madam, when we shall meet, or whether at all in 
this world ; but certain it is that, whether we meet 
or not, 

I am most truly yours. 



LXXXVII. 

ON THE RECEIPT OF A HAMPER (IN THE MANNER 
OF HOMER). 

To Samuel Rose, Esq. 

Weston, October 4, 1789. 
My dear Friend, — The hamper is come, and 
come safe ; and the contents I can affirm on my own 
knowledge are excellent. It chanced that another 
hamper and box came by the same conveyance, all 
which I unpacked and expounded in the hall, my 
cousin sitting meantime on the stairs spectatress of 



WILLIAM COWPER. 253 

the business. We diverted ourselves with imagining 
the manner in which Homer would have described 
the scene. Detailed in his circumstantial way, it 
would have furnished materials for a paragraph of 
considerable length in an Odyssey. 

The straw-stuff d hamper with his ruthless steel 
He open'd, cutting sheer th' inserted cords, 
Which bound the lid and lip secure. Forth came 
The rustling package first, bright straw of wheat, 
Or oats, or barley; next a bottle green 
Throat-full, clear spirits the contents, distill'd 
Drop after drop odorous, by the art 
Of the fair mother of his friend — the Rose. 

And so on. 

I should rejoice to be the hero of such a tale in the 
hands of Homer. 

You will remember, I trust, that when the state 
of your health or spirits calls for rural walks and 
fresh air, you have always a retreat at Weston. 

We are all well, all love you, down to the very 
dog, and shall be glad to hear that you have ex- 
changed languor for alacrity, and the debility that 
you mention for indefatigable vigor. 

Mr. Throckmorton has made me a handsome 
present, — Villoison's edition of the Iliad, elegantly 
bound by Edwards. If I live long enough, by the 
contributions of my friends I shall once more be 
possessed of a library. 

Adieu. 



254 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

LXXXVIII. 

SUMMARY OF HIS PRESENT SITUATION. 

To the Rev. John Newton. 

December I, 1789. 

My dear Friend, — On this fine first of Decem- 
ber, under an uncloudy sky, and in a room full of 
sunshine, I address myself to the payment of a debt 
long in arrear, but never forgotten by me, however 
I may have seemed to forget it. I will not waste 
time in apologies. I have but one, and that one 
will suggest itself unmentioned. I will only add 
that you are the first to whom I write of several to 
whom I have not written many months, who all have 
claims upon me, and who I flatter myself are all 
grumbling at my silence. In your case perhaps I 
have been less anxious than in the case of some others, 
because if you have not heard from myself, you have 
heard from Mrs. Unwin. From her you have learned 
that I live, that I am as well as usual, and that I 
translate Homer, — three short items, but in which 
is comprised the whole detail of my present history. 
Thus I fared when you were here ; thus I have fared 
ever since you were here ; and thus, if it please God, 
I shall continue to fare for some time longer ; for, 
though the work is done, it is not finished, — a rid- 
dle which you, who are a brother of the press, will 
solve easily. I have also been the less anxious be- 
cause I have had frequent opportunities to hear of 
you, and have always heard that you are in good 



WILLIAM COWPER. 255 

health and happy. Of Mrs. Newton, too, I have 
heard more favorable accounts of late, which have 
given us both the sincerest pleasure. Mrs. Unwin's 
case is at present my only subject of uneasiness that 
is not immediately personal and properly my own. 
She has almost constant headaches, almost a con- 
stant pain in her side which nobody understands, 
and her lameness within the last half year is very 
little amended. But her spirits are good because 
supported by comforts which depend not on the 
state of the body ; and I do not know that, with all 
these pains, her looks are at all altered since we had 
the happiness to see. you here, — unless perhaps 
they are altered a little for the better. I have thus 
given you as circumstantial an account of ourselves 
as I could, — the most interesting matter I verily 
believe with which I could have filled my paper, un- 
less I could have made spiritual mercies to myself 
the subject. In my next perhaps I shall find leisure 
to bestow a few lines on what is doing in France 
and in the Austrian Netherlands, — though, to say 
the truth, I am much better qualified to write an 
essay on the siege of Troy than to descant on any 
of these modern revolutions. I question if in either 
of the countries just mentioned, full of bustle and 
tumult as they are, there be a single character whom 
Homer, were he living, would deign to make his 
hero. The populace are the heroes now ; and the 
stuff of which gentlemen heroes are made seems to 
be all expended. 

I will endeavor that my next letter shall not fol- 
low this so tardily as this has followed the last ; and 



256 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

with our joint affectionate remembrances to yourself 
and Mrs. Newton, remain as ever, 

Sincerely yours. 



LXXXIX. 

FIRST APPEARANCE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. 

Weston, December 18, 1789. 
My dear Friend, — The present appears to me 
a wonderful period in the history of mankind. That 
nations so long contentedly slaves should on a sud- 
den become enamoured of liberty, and understand as 
suddenly their own natural right to it, feeling them- 
selves at the same time inspired with resolution to 
assert it, seems difficult to account for from natural 
causes. With respect to the final issue of all this, I 
can only say that if, having discovered the value of 
liberty, they should next discover the value of peace, 
and lastly the value of the word of God, they will be 
happier than they ever were since the rebellion of 
the first pair, and as happy as it is possible they 
should be in the present life. 

Most sincerely yours. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 257 

xc. 

FOREBODINGS OF THE MONTH OF JANUARY. 

To the Rev. John Newton. 

February $, 1790. 

My dear Friend, — Your kind letter deserved 
a speedier answer, but you know my excuse, which 
were I to repeat always, my letters would resemble 
the fag-end of a newspaper, where we always find 
the price of stocks detailed with little or no 
variation. 

When January returns you have your feelings con- 
cerning me, and such as prove the faithfulness of 
your friendship. I have mine also concerning my- 
self, but they are of a cast different from yours. 
Yours have a mixture of sympathy and tender soli- 
citude which makes them, perhaps, not altogether 
unpleasant. Mine, on the contrary, are of an un- 
mixed nature, and consist simply and merely of the 
most alarming apprehensions. Twice has that month 
returned upon me, accompanied by such horrors as 
I have no reason to suppose ever made part of the 
experience of any other man. I accordingly look 
forward to it and meet it with a dread not to be 
imagined. I number the nights as they pass, and 
in the morning bless myself that another night is 
gone and no harm has happened. This may argue, 
perhaps, some imbecility of mind, and no small 
degree of it ; but it is natural, I believe, and so 
natural as to be necessary and unavoidable. I know 
17 



258 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

that God is not governed by secondary causes in 
any of his operations, and that, on the contrary, 
they are all so many agents in his hand, which 
strike only when he bids them. I know, conse- 
quently, that one month is as dangerous to me as 
another, and that in the middle of summer at noon- 
day and in the clear sunshine I am, in reality, 
unless guarded by him, as much exposed as when 
fast asleep at midnight and in midwinter. But we 
are not always the wiser for our knowledge, and I 
can no more avail myself of mine than if it were in 
the head of another man, and not in my own. I 
have heard of bodily aches and ails that have been 
particularly troublesome when the season returned in 
which the hurt that occasioned them was received. 
The mind, I believe (with my own, however, I am 
sure it is so), is liable to similar periodical affection. 
But February is come, January, my terror, is 
passed, and some shades of the gloom that at- 
tended his presence have passed with him. I look 
forward with a little cheerfulness to the buds and 
the leaves that will soon appear, and say to myself, 
till they turn yellow I will make myself easy. The 
year will go round, and January will approach. 
I shall tremble again, and I know it ; but in the 
mean time I will be as comfortable as I can. Thus, 
in respect of peace of mind, such as it is that I 
enjoy, I subsist, as the poor are vulgarly said to do, 
from hand to mouth ; and, of a Christian, such as 
you once knew me, am, by a strange transforma- 
tion, become an Epicurean philosopher, bearing 
this motto on my mind, — Quid sit futurui?i eras, 
fuge qucerere. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 259 

I have run on in a strain that the beginning of 
your letter suggested to me, with such impetuosity 
that I have not left myself opportunity to write more 
by the present post ; and being unwilling that you 
should wait longer for what will be worth nothing 
when you get it, will only express the great pleasure 
we feel on hearing, as we did lately from Mr. Bull, 
that Mrs. Newton is so much better. 

Mrs. Unwin has been very indifferent all the win- 
ter, harassed by continual headaches and want of 
sleep, the consequences of a nervous fever; but I 
hope she begins to recover. 

With our best love to Mrs. Newton, not forget- 
ting Miss Catlett, I remain, my dear friend, 
Truly yours. 



XCI. 

ON RECEIVING A PRESENT OF HIS MOTHER'S 
PICTURE. 

To Lady Hesketh. 

The Lodge, February 26, 1790. 
You have set my heart at ease, my cousin, so far 
as you were yourself the object of its anxieties. 
What other troubles it feels can be cured by God 
alone. But you are never silent a week longer than 
usual without giving an opportunity to my imagina- 
tion (ever fruitful in flowers of a sable hue) to 
tease me with them day and night. London is 
indeed a pestilent place, as you call it, and I would, 
with all my heart, that thou hadst less to do with it ; 



260 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

were you under the same roof with me, I should 
know you to be safe, and should never distress you 
with melancholy letters. 

I feel myself well enough inclined to the measure 
you propose, and will show to your new acquaint- 
ance with all my heart a sample of my translation, 
but it shall not, if you please, be taken from the 
Odyssey. It is a poem of a gentler character 
than the Iliad, and as I propose to carry her by 
a coup de main, I shall employ Achilles, Agamem- 
non, and the two armies of Greece and Troy in my 
service. I will accordingly send you, in the box 
that I received from you last night, the two first 
books of the Iliad for that lady's perusal ; to those 
I have given a third revisal ; for them, therefore, 
I will be answerable, and am not afraid to stake 
the credit of my work upon them with her, or with 
any living wight, especially one who understands the 
original. I do not mean that even they are finished, 
for I shall examine and cross-examine them yet 
again, and so you may tell her ; but I know that 
they will not disgrace me : whereas it is so long 
since I have looked at the Odyssey that I know 
nothing at all about it. They shall set sail from 
Olney on Monday morning in the Diligence, and 
will reach you, I hope, in the evening. As soon as 
she has done with them, I shall be glad to have 
them again, for the time draws near when I shall 
want to give them the last touch. 

I am delighted with Mrs. Bodham's 1 kindness 

1 Mrs. Bodham had been a favorite cousin of Cowper's in 
their childhood. During twenty-seven years he had held no 



WILLIAM COWPER. 261 

in giving me the only picture of my own mother 
that is to be found, I suppose, in all the world. 
I had rather possess it than the richest jewel in the 
British crown, for I loved her with an affection that 
her death, fifty-two years since, has not in the least 
abated. I remember her too, young as I was when 
she died, well enough to know that it is a very 
exact resemblance of her, and, as such, it is to me 
invaluable. Everybody loved her, and with an 
amiable character so impressed upon all her fea- 
tures, everybody was sure to do so. 

I have a very affectionate and a very clever letter 
from Johnson, who promises me the transcript of 
the books intrusted to him in a few days. I have 
a great love for that young man ; he has some drops 
of the same stream in his veins that once animated 
the original of that dear picture. 

intercourse with his maternal relations, and had entirely dis- 
appeared from their knowledge until he became known to 
the public. John Johnson, grandson of his mother's brother, 
Roger Donne, then sought him out at Weston. A report 
of his visit to his aunt, Mrs. Bodham, led her to write to 
Cowper, enclosing a picture of his mother. 



262 THE BEST LETTERS OF 



XCIL 

ACKNOWLEDGING THE RECEIPT OF HIS MOTHER'S 
PICTURE. 

To Mrs. Bodham. 

Weston, February 27, 1790. 
My dearest Rose, 1 — Whom I thought withered 
and fallen from the stalk, but whom I find still alive, 
nothing could give me greater pleasure than to know 
it, and to learn it from yourself. I loved you dearly 
when you were a child, and love you not a jot the 
less for having ceased to be so. Every creature 
that bears any affinity to my mother is dear to me, 
and you, the daughter of her brother, are but one 
remove distant from her ; I love you, therefore, and 
love you much, both for her sake and for your own. 
The world could not have furnished you with a 
present so acceptable to me as the picture which 
you have so kindly sent me. I received it the 
night before last, and viewed it with a trepidation 
of nerves and spirits somewhat akin to what I 
should have felt had the, dear original presented 
herself to my embraces. I kissed it, and hung it 
where it is the last object that I see at night, and, 
of course, the first on which I open my eyes in the 
morning. She died when I completed my sixth 
year ; yet I remember her well, and am an ocular 
witness of the great fidelity of the copy. I remem- 

1 Cowper's pet name for his cousin. Mrs. Bodham 's 
Christian name was Ann. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 263 

ber, too, a multitude of the maternal tendernesses 
which I received from her, and which have endeared 
her memory to me beyond expression. There is 
in me, I believe, more of the Donne 1 than of the 
Cowper ; and though I love all of both names, and 
have a thousand reasons to love those of my own 
name, yet I feel the bond of nature draw me vehe- 
mently to your side. I was thought in the days of 
my childhood much to resemble my mother ; and 
in my natural temper, of which, at the age of fifty- 
eight, I must be supposed to be a competent judge, 
can trace both her and my late uncle, your father. 
Somewhat of his irritability, and a little, I would 

hope, both of his and of her , I know not what 

to call it, without seeming to praise myself, which is 
not my intention, but speaking to you, I will even 
speak out and say, good nature. Add to all this, 
I deal much in poetry, as did our venerable ances- 
tor, the Dean of St. Paul's, and I think I shall have 
proved myself a Donne at all points. The truth is, 
that whatever I am, I love you all. 

I account it a happy event that brought the dear 
boy, your nephew, to my knowledge, and that, 
breaking through all the restraints which his natural 
bashfulness imposed on him, he determined to find 
me out. He is amiable to a degree that I have 
seldom seen, and I often long with impatience to 
see him again. 

My dearest cousin, what shall I say in answer to 
your affectionate invitation? I must say this : I can- 
not come now, nor soon, and I wish with all my heart I 

1 The family name of Cowper's mother. 



264 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

could. But I will tell you what may be done, perhaps, 
and it will answer to us just as well, — you and Mr. 
Bodham can come to Weston; can you not? The 
summer is at hand, there are roads and wheels to 
bring you, and you are neither of you translating 
Homer. I am crazed that I cannot ask you all 
together, for want of house-room ; but for Mr. Bod- 
ham and yourself we have good room ; and equally 
good for any third, in the shape of a Donne, whether 
named Hewitt, Bodham, Balls, or Johnson, or by 
whatever name distinguished. Mrs. Hewitt has 
particular claims upon me ; she was my playfellow 
at Berkhamstead, and has a share in my warmest 
affections. Pray tell her so ! Neither do I at all 
forget my cousin Harriet. She and I have been 
many a time merry at Catfield, and have made the 
parsonage ring with laughter. Give my love to her. 
Assure yourself, my dearest cousin, that I shall 
receive you as if you were my sister, and Mrs. Un- 
win is, for my sake, prepared to do the same. 
When she has seen you, she will love you for 
your own. 

I am much obliged to Mr. Bodham for his kind- 
ness to my Homer ; and with my love to you all, 
and with Mrs. Unwin's kind respects, am, 
My dear, dear Rose, ever yours. 

P. S. — I mourn the death of your poor brother 
Castres, whom I should have seen had he lived, 
and should have seen with the greatest pleasure. 
He was an amiable boy, and I was very fond of him. 

Still another P. S. — I find, on consulting Mrs. 
Unwin, that I have underrated our capabilities, and 



WILLIAM COWPER. 265 

that we have not only room for you and Mr. Bod- 
ham, but for two of your sex, and even for your 
nephew into the bargain. We shall be happy to 
have it all so occupied. Your nephew tells me 
that his sister, in the qualities of her mind, resem- 
bles you ; that is enough to make her dear to me, 
and I beg you will assure her that she is so. Let 
it not be long before I hear from you. 



XCIII. 

CONCERNING THE TWO POEMS WHICH GAVE HIM 
THE MOST PLEASURE IN THE WRITING. 

To Mrs. King. 

Weston Underwood, March 12, 1790. 

My dear Madam, — I live in such a nook, have 
so few opportunities of hearing news, and so little 
time to read it, that to me to begin a letter seems 
always a sort of forlorn hope. Can it be possible, I 
say to myself, that I should have anything to com- 
municate? These misgivings have an ill effect, so 
far as my punctuality is concerned, and are apt to 
deter me from the business of letter-writing as from 
an enterprise altogether impracticable. 

I will not say that you are more pleased with my 
trifles than they deserve, lest I should seem to call 
your judgment in question ; but I suspect that a little 
partiality to the brother of my brother enters into 
the opinion you form of them. No matter, however, 
by what you are influenced, it is for my interest that 



266 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

you should like them at any rate, because, such as 
they are, they are the only return that I can make you 
for all your kindness. This consideration will have 
two effects : it will have a tendency to make me 
more industrious in the production of such pieces, 
and more attentive to the manner in which I write 
them. This reminds me of a piece in your posses- 
sion, which I entreat you to commit to the flames, 
because I am somewhat ashamed of it. To make 
you amends I hereby promise to send you a 
new edition of it when time shall serve, delivered 
from the passages that I dislike in the first, and in 
other respects amended. The piece that I mean is 
one entitled " To Lady Hesketh on her furnishing 
for me our house at Weston," or, as the lawyers say, 
words to that amount. I have likewise, since I sent 
you the last packet, been delivered of two or three 
other brats, and, as the year proceeds, shall probably 
add to the number. All that come shall be basketed 
in time, and conveyed to your door. 

I have lately received from a female cousin of 
mine in Norfolk, whom I have not seen these thirty 
years, a picture of my own mother. She died when 
I wanted two days of being six years old ; yet I re- 
member her perfectly, find the picture a strong like- 
ness of her, because her memory has been ever 
precious to me, have written a poem on the receipt 
of it, 1 — a poem which, one excepted, 2 I had more 
pleasure in writing than any that I ever wrote. That 

1 On the Receipt of my Mother's Picture out of Norfolk. 

2 Probably the sonnet beginning, " Mary ! I want a lyre 
with other strings." 



WILLIAM COWPER. 267 

one was addressed to a lady whom I expect in a few 
minutes to come down to breakfast, and who has sup- 
plied to me the place of my own mother — my own 
invaluable mother — these six-and-twenty years. 
Some sons may be said to have had many fathers ; 
but a plurality of mothers is not common. 

Adieu, my dear madam. Be assured that I al- 
ways think of you with much esteem and affection, 
and am, with mine and Mrs. Unwin's best compli- 
ments to you and yours, most unfeignedly your 
friend and humble servant. 



XCIV. 

CHANGE OF STYLE IN HIS HOMER TRANSLATION. 

To Lady Hesketh. 

The Lodge, March 22, 1790. 
I rejoice, my dearest cousin, that my MSS. have 
roamed the earth so successfully, and have met with 
no disaster. The single book excepted that went to 
the bottom of the Thames and rose again, they have 
been fortunate without exception. I am not super- 
stitious, but have nevertheless as good a right to be- 
lieve that adventure an omen, and a favorable one, 
as Swift had to interpret, as he did, the loss of a fine 
fish, which he had no sooner laid on the bank than 
it flounced into the water again. This, he tells us 
himself, he always considered as a type of his future 
disappointments. And why may not I as well con- 
sider the marvellous recovery of my lost book from 



268 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

the bottom of the Thames as typical of its future 
prosperity? To say the truth, I have no fears now 
about the success of my Translation, though in time 
past I have had many. I knew there was a style 
somewhere, could I but find it, in which Homer 
ought to be rendered, and which alone would suit 
him. Long time I blundered about it ere I could 
attain to any decided judgment on the matter. At 
first I was betrayed by a desire of accommodating 
my language to the simplicity of his into much of 
the quaintness that belonged to our writers of the 
fifteenth century. In the course of many revisals I 
have delivered myself from this evil, I believe, entire- 
ly ; but I have done it slowly, and as a man separates 
himself from his mistress when he is going to marry. 
I had so strong a predilection in favor of this style 
at first that I was crazed to find that others were not 
as much enamoured with it as myself. At every pas- 
sage of that sort which I obliterated, I groaned bit- 
terly, and said to myself, " I am spoiling my work 
to please those who have no taste for the simple 
graces of antiquity." But in measure, as I adopted 
a more modern phraseology, I became a convert to 
their opinion ; and in the last revisal, which I am 
now making, am not sensible of having spared a 
single expression of the obsolete kind. I see my 
work so much improved by this alteration that I 
am filled with wonder at my own backwardness to 
assent to the necessity of it, and the more when I 
consider that Milton, with whose manner I account 
myself intimately acquainted, is never quaint, never 
twangs through the nose, but is everywhere grand 



WILLIAM COWPER. 269 

and elegant, without resorting to musty antiquity for 
his beauties. On the contrary, he took a long stride 
forward, left the language of his own day far behind 
him, and anticipated the expressions of a century 
yet to come. 

I have now, as I said, no longer any doubt of the 
event ; but I will give thee a shilling if thou wilt tell 
me what I shall say in my Preface. It is an affair of 
much delicacy, and I have as many opinions about 
it as there are whims in a weathercock. 

Send my MSS. and thine when thou wilt. In a 
day or two I shall enter on the last Iliad. When I 
have finished it I shall give the Odyssey one more 
reading, and shall therefore shortly have occasion for 
the copy in thy possession ; but you see that there is 
no need to hurry. 



xcv. 

FORBIDDING ANY APPLICATION FOR THE LAUREATE- 
SHIP. 

To Lady Hesketh. 

The Lodge, May 28, 1790. 
My dearest Coz, — I thank thee for the offer of 
thy best services on this occasion. 1 But Heaven 
guard my brows from the wreath you mention, what- 
ever wreath beside may hereafter adorn them ! It 
would be a leaden extinguisher clapped on all the 
fire of my genius, and I should never more produce 

1 Warton had died, leaving vacant the post of poet-laureate, 
and Lady Hesketh had wished to procure it for Cowper. 



270 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

a line worth reading. To speak seriously, it would 
make me miserable, and therefore I am sure that 
thou, of all my friends, would least wish me to 
wear it. 

Adieu ! Ever thine — in Homer-hurry. 



XCVL 

COMMENTS ON THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 
To Lady Hesketh. 

July 7, 1790. 

Instead of beginning with the saffron-vested 
morning to which Homer invites me, on a morning 
that has no saffron vest to boast, I shall begin with 
you. 

It is irksome to us both to wait so long as we 
must for you ; but we are willing to hope that by a 
longer stay you will make us amends for all this 
tedious procrastination. 

Mrs. Unwin has made known her whole case to 
Mr. Gregson, whose opinion of it has been very con- 
solatory to me. He says, indeed, it is a case per- 
fectly out of the reach of all physical aid, but at the 
same time not at all dangerous. Constant pain is a 
sad grievance, whatever part is affected, and she is 
hardly ever free from an aching head, as well as an 
uneasy side ; but patience is an anodyne of God's 
own preparation, and of that he gives her largely. 

The French, who, like all lively folks, are extreme 
in everything, are such in their zeal for freedom ; 



WILLIAM COWPER. 271 

and if it were possible to make so noble a cause 
ridiculous, their manner of promoting it could not 
fail to do so. Princes and peers reduced to plain 
gentlemanship, and gentles reduced to a level with 
their own lackeys, are excesses of which they will 
repent hereafter. Differences of rank and subordi- 
nation are, I believe, of God's appointment, and con- 
sequently essential to the well-being of society ; but 
what we mean by fanaticism in religion is exactly 
that which animates their politics ; and unless time 
should sober them, they will, after all, be an unhappy 
people. Perhaps it deserves not much to be won- 
dered at that at their first escape from tyrannic 
shackles they should act extravagantly, and treat 
their kings as they have sometimes treated their 
idols. To these, however, they are reconciled in due 
time again ; but their respect for monarchy is at an 
end. They want nothing now but a little English 
sobriety, and that they want extremely. I heartily 
wish them some wit in their anger, for it were great 
pity that so many millions should be miserable for 
want of it. 



XCVII. 

ON SENDING HIS HOMER TRANSLATION TO THE 
PUBLISHER. 

To Mrs. Bodham. 

Weston, September 9, 1790. 
My dearest Cousin, — I am truly sorry to be 
forced, after all, to resign the hope of seeing you 



272 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

and Mr. Bodham at Weston this year ; the next may 
possibly be more propitious, and I heartily wish it 
may. Poor Catharine's unseasonable indisposition 
has also cost us a disappointment, which we much 
regret ; and were it not that Johnny 2 has made shift 
to reach us, we should think ourselves completely 
unfortunate. But him we have, and him we will 
hold as long as we can ; so expect not very soon to 
see him in Norfolk. He is so harmless, cheerful, 
gentle, and good-tempered, and I am so entirely at 
my ease with him, that I cannot surrender him with- 
out a needs must, even to those who have a superior 
claim upon him. He left us yesterday morning, and 
whither do you think he is gone, and on what 
errand ? Gone, as sure as you are alive, to London, 
and to convey my Homer to the bookseller's. But 
he will return the day after to-morrow, and I mean 
to part with him no more till necessity shall force us 
asunder. Suspect me not, my cousin, of being such 
a monster as to have imposed this task myself on 
your kind nephew, or even to have thought of doing 
it. It happened that one day, as we chatted by the 
fireside, I expressed a wish that I could hear of 
some trusty body going to London to whose care I 
might consign my voluminous labors, — the work of 
five years. For I purpose never to visit that city 
again myself, and should have been uneasy to have 
left a charge of so much importance to me altogether 
to the care of a stage-coachman. Johnny had no 

1 Catharine Johnson, sister of John Johnson. 

2 John Johnson, who had now become one of Cowper's 
most devoted friends and helpers. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 273 

sooner heard my wish than, offering himself to the 
service, he fulfilled it; and his offer was made in 
such terms, and accompanied with a countenance 
and manner expressive of so much alacrity, that 
unreasonable as I thought it at first to give him so 
much trouble, I soon found that I should mortify 
him by a refusal. He is gone, therefore, with a box 
full of poetry, of which I think nobody will plunder 
him. He has only to say what it is, and there is no 
commodity I think a freebooter would covet less. 



xcvnx. 

EPIGRAM ON THE ILL SUCCESS OF HIS SUBSCRIPTION 
AT OXFORD. 

To Mrs. Throckmorton. 

April i, 1 791. 
My dear Mrs. Frog, 1 — A word or two before 
breakfast, which is all that I shall have time to send 
you. You have not, I hope, forgot to tell Mr. Frog 
how much I am obliged to him for his kind, though 
unsuccessful, attempt in my favor at Oxford. It 
seems not a little extraordinary that persons so 
nobly patronized themselves on the score of litera- 
ture should resolve to give no encouragement to it 
in return. Should I find a fair opportunity to thank 
them hereafter, I will not neglect it. 

1 Cowper's pet title for the Throckmortons was Mr. and 
Mrs. Frog. 

18 



274 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

Could Homer come himself, distress'd and poor, 
And tune his harp at Rhedycina's door, 
The rich old vixen would exclaim (I fear), 
" Begone ! no tramper gets a farthing here." 

I have read your husband's pamphlet through 
and through. You may think, perhaps, and so may 
he, that a question so remote from all concern of 
mine could not interest me ; but if you think so, you 
are both mistaken. He can write nothing that will 
not interest me, in the first place for the writer's 
sake, and in the next place because he writes better 
and reasons better than anybody, — with more can- 
dor and with more sufficiency, and consequently 
with more satisfaction to all his readers, save only his 
opponents. They, I think, by this time wish that 
they had let him alone. 

Tom is delighted past measure with his wooden 
nag, and gallops at a rate that would kill any horse 
that had a life to lose. 

Adieu ! 



XCIX. 

SUCCESS OF HIS HOMER. — CORRESPONDENCE WITH 
THURLOW CONCERNING IT. 

To Lady Hesketh. 

The Lodge, August 30, 1791. 
My dearest Coz, — The walls of Ogressa's cham- 
ber shall be furnished as elegantly as they can be, 
and at little cost ; and when you see them you 



WILLIAM COWPER. 275 

shall cry " Bravo ! " Bedding we have, but two 
chairs will be wanting, the servants' hall having 
engaged all our supernumeraries. These you will 
either send, or give us commission to buy them. 
Such as will suit may be found probably at Maurice 
Smith's, of house- furnishing memory ; and this lat- 
ter course I should think the best, because they are 
of all things most liable to fracture in a wagon. 

I know not how it can have happened that Homer 
is such a secret at Tunbridge, for I can tell you 
that his fame is on the wing, and flies rapidly. 
Johnson, however, seems to be clear from blame ; 
and when you recollect that the whole edition is 
his by purchase, and that he has no possible way to 
get his money again but by the sale of it, thou thy- 
self wilt think so. A tradesman — an old stager 
too — may surely be trusted with his own interest. 

I have spoken big words about Homer's fame, 
and bigger, perhaps, than my intelligence will justify, 
for I have not heard much ; but what I have heard 
has been pretty much to the purpose. First, little 
Johnny, going through Cambridge, in his way home, 
learned from his tutor there that it had found many 
admirers amongst the best qualified judges of that 
university, and that they were very liberal of their 
praises. Secondly, Mr. Rye wrote me word lately 
that a certain candid fair critic and excellent judge, 
of the county of Northampton, gives it high en- 
comiums. Thirdly, Mr. Rye came over himself 
from Gayhurst yesterday on purpose to tell me how 
much he was delighted with it. He had just been 
reading the sixth Iliad, and comparing it with Pope 



276 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

and with the original, and professed himself en- 
chanted. Fourthly, Mr. Frog is much pleased with 
it ; and fifthly, Henry Cowper is bewitched with it ; 
and sixthly, so are — you and I, — $a suffit. 

But now if thou hast the faculty of erecting thy 
ears, lift them into the air, first taking off thy cap, 
that they may have the highest possible elevation. 
Mrs. Unwin says, No, don't tell her ladyship all, 
tell her only enough to raise her curiosity, that 
she may come the sooner to Weston to have it 
gratified. But I say, Yes, I will tell her all, lest 
she should be overcharged, and burst by the way. 

The Chancellor and I, my dear, have had a cor- 
respondence on the subject of Homer. He had 
doubts, it seems, about the propriety of translating 
him in blank verse, and wrote to Henry to tell 
him so, adding a translation of his own in rhyme 
of the speech of Achilles to Phoenix, in the ninth 
book ; and referring him to me, who, he said, could 
elevate it and polish it and give it the tone of 
Homer. Henry sent this letter to me, and I an- 
swered it in one to his Lordship, but not meddling 
with his verses, for I remembered what happened 
between Gil Bias and the Archbishop of Toledo. 
His Lordship sent me two sheets in reply, filled with 
arguments in favor of rhyme, which I was to answer 
if I could, and containing another translation of the 
same passage, only in blank verse, leaving it to me 
to give it rhyme, to make it close and faithful 
and poetical. All this I performed as best I could ; 
and yesterday I heard from him again. In this last 
letter he says, " I am clearly convinced that 



WILLIAM COWPER. 277 

Homer may be best translated without rhyme, and 
that you have succeeded in the passages I have 
looked into." 

Such is the candor of a wise man and a real 
scholar. I would to Heaven that all prejudiced 
persons were like him ! — I answered this letter 
immediately ; and here, I suppose, our correspond- 
ence ends. Have I not made a great convert? 
You shall see the letters, both his and mine, when 
you come. 

My picture hangs in the study. I will not tell 
thee what others think of it, but thou shalt judge 
for thyself. I altogether approve Mrs. Carter's 
sentiments upon the Birmingham riots, and admire 
her manner of expressing them. The Frogs came 
down to-day, bringing Catharina with them. Mrs. 
Frog has caught cold, as I hear, in her journey ; 
therefore how she may be now, I know not, but 
before she went she was well and in excellent 
spirits. I rejoice that thy poor lungs can play 
freely, and shall be happy when they can do the 
same at Weston. My eyes are weak, and some- 
what inflamed, and have never been well this month 
past. 

Mrs. Unwin is tolerably well, — that is, much as 
usual. She joins me in best love, and in every- 
thing that you can wish us both to feel for you. 
Adieu, my dearest coz, 
Ever thine. 



278 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

c. 

ENGAGEMENT TO EDIT MILTON. 

To Samuel Rose, Esq. 

The Lodge, September 14, 1791. 

My dear Friend, — Whoever reviews me will in 
fact have a laborious task of it, in the performance 
of which he ought to move leisurely, and to exer- 
cise much critical discernment. In the mean time 
my courage is kept up by the arrival of such testi- 
monies in my favor as give me the greatest pleas- 
ure, coming from quarters the most respectable. 
I have reason, therefore, to hope that our periodical 
judges will not be very adverse to me, and that per- 
haps they may even favor me. If one man of taste 
and letters is pleased, another man so qualified can 
hardly be displeased ; and if critics of a different 
description grumble, they will not, however, mate- 
rially hurt me. 

You, who know how necessary it is to me to be em- 
ployed, will be glad to hear that I have been called 
to a new literary engagement, and that I have not 
refused it. A Milton that is to rival, and if possible 
to exceed, in splendor Boydell's Shakespeare, is in 
contemplation, and I am in the editor's office. 
Fuseli is the painter. My business will be to select 
notes from others and to write original notes, to 
translate the Latin and Italian poems, and to give 
a correct text. I shall have years allowed me to 
do it in. 



WILLIAM COWPER. . 279 

CI. 

MRS. UNW1N STRICKEN WITH PARALYSIS. 

To Samuel Rose, Esq. 

The Lodge, December 21, 1791. 

My dear Friend, — It grieves me, after having 
indulged a little hope that I might see you in the 
holidays, to be obliged to disappoint myself. The 
occasion, too, is such as will insure me your 
sympathy. 

On Saturday last, while I was at my desk near the 
window, and Mrs. Unwin at the fireside opposite to 
it, I heard her suddenly exclaim, " Oh, Mr. Cowper, 
don't let me fail ! " I turned and saw her actually 
falling, together with her chair, and started to her 
side just in time to prevent her. She was seized 
with a violent giddiness, which lasted, though with 
some abatement, the whole day, and was attended, 
too, with some other very, very alarming symptoms. 
At present, however, she is relieved from the vertigo, 
and seems in all respects better. 

She has been my faithful and affectionate nurse 
for many years, and consequently has a claim on all 
my attentions. She has them, and will have them 
as long as she wants them, — which will probably be, 
at the best, a considerable time to come. I feel the 
shock, as you may suppose, in every nerve. God 
grant that there may be no repetition of it ! An- 
other such a stroke upon her would, I think, overset 
me completely ; but at present I hold up bravely. 



280 THE BEST LETTERS OF 



CII. 



LINES FOR MISS PATTV MORE'S ALBUM. —DEPARTURE 
OF THE THROCKMORTONS FROM WESTON. 

To the Rev. John Newton. 

Weston, March 4, 1792. 

My dear Friend, — My patience must indeed have 
been made of flimsy stuff had it given way to your 
reasonable objection. Yours is likely to undergo a 
severer trial while I pester you again on this trivial 
subject. 

You and I were well content with the new edition 
of my four lines as corrected and amended by my 
cousin. You even thought that they could not be 
mended ; but she was of a different opinion, and 
has given a copy of them I think still better. Un- 
less, therefore, you have already sent them, I shall 
be obliged to you if you will not till I can remit to 
you this best edition, which I shall soon be able to 
do by the aid of my cousin, who goes to town on 
Wednesday. They are at present thus altered : — 

In vain to live from age to age, 
While modern bards endeavor, 

/ write my name in Patty's page, 
And gain my point forever. 

The greater propriety of this way of expressing it 
will present itself to you, and therefore need not be 
mentioned. 

You may dismiss all fears lest I should bestow 
praise on so unworthy a subject of it as his R. H. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 281 

Whatever I may write on that occasion shall, you 

may depend on it. do him as little honor and as 
much justice as the lines you sent me. I have paid 
here and there a compliment to persons who I 
knew deserved one, and I would not invalidate them 
all by proving that my Muse is an indiscriminating 
harlot, and her good word nothing worth. 

All our little world is going to London, — the 
gulf that swallows most of our good things, and, like 
a bad stomach, too often assimilates them to itself. 
Our neighbors at the Hall go thither to-morrow. 
Mr. and Airs. Throckmorton, as we lately called 
but now Sir John and my Lady, are no longer 
inhabitants here, but henceforth of Bucklands, in 
Berkshire. I feel the loss of them, and shall feel it, 
since kinder or more friendly treatment I never can 
receive at any hands than I have always found at 
theirs. But it has long been a foreseen change, and 
was indeed almost daily expected long before it 
happened. The desertion of the Hall, however, will 
not be total. The second brother, George, now 
Mr. Courtenay, intends to reside there: and with 
him, as with his elder brother, I have always been 
on terms the most agreeable. 

h is this variable scene. — so variable that, 
the reflections I sometimes make upon it a per- 
manent influence, I should tremble at the thought of 
connection, and, to be out of the reach of its 
mutability, lead almost the life of a hermit. It is 
well with those who, like you, have God for their 
companion. Death cannot deprive them of him. and 
he changes not his place of abode. Other changes, 



282 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

therefore, to them are all supportable ; and what you 
say of your own experience is the strongest possible 
proof of it. Had you lived without God, you could 
not have endured the loss you mention. May he 
preserve me from a similar one, — at least till he 
shall be pleased to draw me to himself again. Then, 
if ever that day come, it will make me equal to any 
burden ; but at present I can bear nothing well. 
Adieu ! Mrs. Unwin is, I hope, daily regaining 
strength, and joins me in love to yourself and Betsy. 
Lady Hesketh sends compliments. I am sincerely 
yours. 

CHI. 

BEGINNING OF FRIENDSHIP WITH WILLIAM HAYLEY. 

To Lady Hesketh. 

The Lodge, March 25, 1792. 
My dearest Coz, — Mr. Rose's longer stay than 
he at first intended was the occasion of the longer 
delay of my answer to your note, as you may both 
have perceived by the date thereof, and learned 
from his information. It was a daily trouble to me 
to see it lying in the window-seat, while I knew 
you were in expectation of its arrival. By this time 
I presume you have seen him, and have seen like- 
wise Mr. Hayley's friendly letter and complimentary 
sonnet, 1 as well as the letter of the honest Quaker, — 

1 Hayley was engaged in writing a Life of Milton for a 
Boydell edition of Milton's works. A newspaper report that 
the rivalry of the publishers was shared also by the writers, 



WILLIAM COWPER. 283 

all of which, at least the two former, I shall be glad 
to receive again at a fair opportunity. Mr. Hayley's 
letter slept six weeks in Johnson's custody. It was 
necessary I should answer it without delay, and 
accordingly I answered it the very evening on which 
I received it, giving him to understand, among 
other things, how much vexation the bookseller's 
folly had cost me, who had detained it so long, — 
especially on account of the distress that I knew it 
must have occasioned to him also. From his reply, 
which the return of the post brought me, I learn 
that in the long interval of my non-correspondence 
he had suffered anxiety and mortification enough, — 
so much that I dare say he made twenty vows never 
to hazard again either letter or compliment to an 
unknown author. What indeed could he imagine 
less, than that I meant by such an obstinate silence 
to tell him that I valued neither him nor his praises 
nor his proffered friendship, — in short, that I con- 
sidered him as a rival, and therefore, like a true 
author, hated and despised him? He is now, how- 
ever, convinced that I love him, — as indeed I do, 
and I account him the chief acquisition that my 
own verse has ever procured me. Brute should I 
be if I did not ; for he promises me every assistance 
in his power. 

I have likewise a very pleasing letter from Mr. 
Park, which I wish you were here to read, and 
a very pleasing poem that came inclosed in it 

led Hayley to address a generous letter and complimentary 
sonnet to Cowper, through the medium of his publisher, 
Johnson. 



284 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

for my revisal, written when he was only twenty 
years of age, yet wonderfully well written, though 
wanting some correction. 

To Mr. Hurdis I return "Sir Thomas More" 1 
to-morrow ; having revised it a second time. He 
is now a very respectable figure, and will do my 
friend, who gives him to the public this spring, 
considerable credit. 



CIV. 

SUDDEN FRIENDSHIPS. — INVITATION TO WESTON. 

To William Hayley, Esq. 

Weston, April 6, 1792. 
My dear Friend, — God grant that this friend- 
ship of ours may be a comfort to us all the rest of 
our days, in a world where true friendships are 
rarities, and especially where, suddenly formed, they 
are apt soon to terminate ! But, as I said before, 
I feel a disposition of heart toward you that I never 
felt for one whom I had never seen ; and that shall 
prove itself, I trust, in the event a propitious 
omen. 

Horace says somewhere, though I may quote it 
amiss, perhaps, for I have a terrible memory, — 

Utrumque nostrum incredibili modo 
Consentit astrum . 

1 A tragedy written by Mr. Hurdis, and submitted to Cow- 
per for criticism. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 285 

. . . Our stars consent, at least have had an influ- 
ence somewhat similar in another and more impor- 
tant article. . . . 

It gives me the sincerest pleasure that I may hope 
to see you at Weston ; for as to any migrations of 
mine, they must, I fear, notwithstanding the joy 
I should feel in being a guest of yours, be still 
considered in the light of impossibilities. Come 
then, my friend, and be as welcome, as the country 
people say here, as the flowers in May. I am 
happy, as I say, in the expectation ; but the fear, 
or rather the consciousness, that I shall not answer 
on a nearer view, makes it a trembling kind of hap- 
piness, and a doubtful. 

After the privacy which I have mentioned above, 
I went to Huntingdon. Soon after my arrival there 
I took up my quarters at the house of the Rev. Mr. 
Unwin ; I lived with him while he lived, and ever 
since his death have lived with his widow. Her, 
therefore, you will find mistress of the house ; and I 
judge of you amiss or you will find her just such as 
you would wish. To me she has been often a nurse, 
and invariably the kindest friend through a thousand 
adversities that I have had to grapple with in the 
course of almost thirty years. I thought it better to 
introduce her to you thus than to present her to you 
at your coming, quite a stranger. 

Bring with you any books that you think may be 
useful to my commentatorship ; for with you for an 
interpreter I shall be afraid of none of them ; and 
in truth, if you think that you shall want them, you 
must bring books for your own use also, for they 



286 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

are an article with which I am heinously unprovided, 
being much in the condition of the man whose library 
Pope describes as — 

" No mighty store, 
His own works neatly bound, and little more ! " 

You shall know how this has come to pass hereafter. 
Tell me, my friend, are your letters in your own 
handwriting? If so, I am in pain for your eyes, 
lest by such frequent demands upon them I 
should hurt them. I had rather write you three 
letters for one, much as I prize your letters, than 
that should happen. And now, for the present, 
adieu. I am going to accompany Milton into the 
lake of fire and brimstone, having just begun my 
annotations. 



CV. 

MRS. UNWIN'S SECOND PARALYTIC STROKE. 

To Lady Hesketh. 

Weston, May 24, 1792. 
I wish with all my heart, my dearest Coz, that I 
had not ill news for the subject of the present letter. 
My friend, my Mary, has again been attacked by the 
same disorder that threatened me last year with the 
loss of her, and of which you were yourself a witness. 
Gregson would not allow that first stroke to be 
paralytic, but this he acknowledges to be so ; and 
with respect to the former, I never had myself any 
doubt that it was ; but this has been much the se- 



WILLIAM COWPER. 287 

verest. Her speech has been almost unintelligible 
from the moment that she was struck; it is with 
difficulty that she opens her eyes, and she cannot 
keep them open, the muscles necessary to the pur- 
pose being contracted ; and as to self- moving powers 
from place to place and the use of her right hand 
and arm, — she has entirely lost them. 

It has happened well that, of all men living, the 
man most qualified to assist and comfort me is here, 
though till within these few days I never saw him, 
and a few weeks since had no expectation that I 
ever should. You have already guessed that I mean 
Hayley, — Hayley, who loves me as if he had known 
me from my cradle. When he returns to town, as 
he must, alas ! too soon, he will pay his respects to 
you. 

I will not conclude without adding that our poor 
patient is beginning, I hope, to recover from this 
stroke also ; but her amendment is slow, as must be 
expected at her time of life, and in such a disorder. 
I am as well myself as you have ever known me in 
a time of much trouble, and even better. 



CVI. 

EVENTFULNESS OF THE LAST TWO MONTHS. 

To Lady Hesketh. 

Weston, June 11, 1792. 
My dearest Coz, — Thou art ever in my thoughts, 
whether I am writing to thee or not ; and my cor- 



285 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

respondence seems to grow upon me at such a rate 
that I am not able to address thee so often as I 
would ; in fact, I live only to write letters. Hayley 
is, as you see, added to the number ; and to him I 
write almost as daily as I rise in the morning ; nor 
is he only added, but his friend Carwardine also, — 
Carwardine the generous, the disinterested, the 
friendly. I seem, in short, to have stumbled sud- 
denly on a race of heroes, — men who resolve to 
have no interests of their own till mine are served. 

But I will proceed to other matters that concern 
me more intimately and more immediately than all 
that can be done for me either by the great or the 
small, or by both united. Since I wrote last, Mrs. 
Unwin has been continually improving in strength, 
but at so gradual a rate that I can only mark it by 
saying that she moves about every day with less 
support than the former. Her recovery is most of 
all retarded by want of sleep. On the whole, I be- 
lieve she goes on as well as could be expected, 
though not quite well enough to satisfy me; and 
Dr. Austin, speaking from the reports I have made 
of her, says he has no doubt of her restoration. 

During the last two months I seem to myself to 
have been in a dream. It has been a most eventful 
period, and fruitful to an uncommon degree both 
in good and evil. I have been very ill and suffered 
excruciating pain. I recovered, and became quite 
well again. I received within my doors a man but 
lately an entire stranger, and who now loves me as 
his brother, and forgets himself to serve me. Mrs. 
Unwin has been seized with an illness that for many 



WILLIAM COWPER. 289 

days threatened to deprive me of her, and to cast a 
gloom — an impenetrable one — on all my future 
prospects. She is now granted to me again. A few 
days since I rhould have thought the moon might 
have descended into my purse as lightly as any emo- 
lument, and now it seems not impossible. All this 
has come to pass with such rapidity as events move 
with in romance, indeed, but not often in real life. 
Events of all sorts creep or fly exactly as God 
pleases. 

To the foregoing I have to add, in conclusion, 
the arrival of my Johnny 1 just when I wanted him 
most, and when only a few days before I had no ex- 
pectation of him. He came to dinner on Saturday, 
and I hope I shall keep him long. What comes 
next I know not, but shall endeavor, as you exhort 
me, to look for good, and I know I shall have your 
prayers that I may not be disappointed. 

Hayley tells me you begin to be jealous of him, 
lest I should love him more than I love you, and 
bids me say " that should I do so, you in revenge 
must love him more than I do." — Him I know you 
will love, and me because you have such a habit of 
doing it that you cannot help it. 

Adieu ! My knuckles ache with letter-writing. 
With my poor patient's affectionate remembrances, 
and Johnny's, 

I am ever thine. 

1 Cowper's nephew, Rev. John Johnson ; on him was soon 
to devolve the entire responsibility of caring for Cowper and 
Mrs. Unwin through their declining years and failing powers. 



1 



290 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

CVII. 

HIS PUBLISHER'S GOOD INTENTIONS. — POLITICS. 

To Lady Hesketh. 

December I, 1792. 

I am truly glad, my dearest coz, that the waters 
of Cheltenham have done thee good, and wish ar- 
dently that those of Bath may establish thy health, 
and prove the means of prolonging it many years, 
even till thou shalt become what thou wast called 
at a very early age, an old wench indeed. I have 
been a pauvre miserable ever since I came from 
Eartham, and was little better while there ; so that 
whatever motive may incline me to travel again 
hereafter, it will not be the hope that my spirits will 
be much the better for it. Neither was Mrs. Un- 
win's health so much improved by that frisk of ours 
into Sussex, as I had hoped and expected. She is, 
however, tolerably well, but very far indeed from 
having recovered the effects of her last disorder. 

My birthday — the sixty-first that I have num- 
bered — has proved for once a propitious day to 
me ; for on that day my spirits began to mend, — 
my nights became less hideous, and my days have 
been such of course. 

I have heard nothing from Joseph, and having 
been always used to hear from him in November, 
am reduced to the dire necessity of supposing, with 
you, that he is heinously offended. Being in want of 
money, however, I wrote to him yesterday, and a 



WILLIAM COWPER. 291 

letter which ought to produce a friendly answer; 
but whether it will or not is an affair at present of 
great uncertainty. Walter Bagot is offended too, 
and wonders that I would have any connection with 
so bad a man as the author of the Essay on Old 
Maids must necessarily be. Poor man ! he has five 
sisters, I think, in that predicament, which makes his 
resentment rather excusable. Joseph, by the way, 
has two, and perhaps may be proportionally influ- 
enced by that consideration. Should that be the case, 
I have nothing left to do but to wish them all good 
husbands, since the reconciliation of my two friends 
seems closely connected with that contingency. 

In making the first advances to your sister you 
have acted like yourself, — that is to say, like a good 
and affectionate sister, and will not, I hope, lose your 
reward. Rewarded in another world you will be, no 
doubt ; but I should hope that you will be not alto- 
gether unrecompensed in this. Thou hast a heart, 
I know, that cannot endure to be long at enmity with 
any one ; and were I capable of using thee never so 
ill, I am sure that in time you would sue to me for 
a pardon. Thou dost not want fire, but meekness 
is predominant in thee. 

I was never so idle in my life, and never had so 
much to do. God knows when this will end, but I 
think of bestirring myself soon, and of putting on 
my Miltonic trammels once again. That once done, 
I shall not, I hope, put them off till the work is 
finished. I have written nothing lately but a sonnet 
to Romney, 1 and a mortuary copy of verses for the 
1 The artist who had just painted Cowper's portrait. 



292 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

town of Northampton, having been applied to by the 
new clerk for that purpose. 

Johnson designs handsomely. You must pardon 
Johnson, and receive him into your best graces. He 
purposes to publish, together with my Homer, a new 
edition of my two volumes of poems, and to make 
me a present of the entire profits. They are to be 
handsome quartos, with an engraving of Abbott's 
picture of me prefixed. I have left myself neither 
time nor room for politics. 

The French are a vain and childish people, and 
conduct themselves on this grand occasion with a 
levity and extravagance nearly akin to madness ; 
but it would have been better for Austria and Prussia 
to let them alone. All nations have a right to choose 
their own mode of government ; and the sovereignty 
of the people is a doctrine that evinces itself; for 
whenever the people choose to be masters, they always 
are so, and none can hinder them. God grant that 
we may have no revolution here ; but unless we have 
a reform, we certainly shall. Depend upon it, my 
dear, the hour is come when power founded in 
patronage and corrupt majorities must govern this 
land no longer. Concessions, too, must be made 
to dissenters of every denomination. They have a 
right to them, — a right to all the privileges of Eng- 
lishmen ; and sooner or later, by fair means or by 
force, they will have them. 

Adieu, my dearest coz. I have only time to add 
Mrs. U.'s most affectionate remembrances, and to 
conclude myself 

Ever thine. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 293 

Mr. and Mrs. Rose came on the twenty-second,, 
and Johnny with them, — the former to stay ten days. 
It is strange that anybody should suspect Mr. Smith 
of having been assisted by me. None writes more 
rapidly or more correctly, — twenty pages in a morn- 
ing, which I have often read and heard read at night, 
and found not a word to alter. This moment comes 
a very kind letter from Joseph. Sephus tells me I 
may expect to see very soon the strongest assurances 
from the people of property of every description to 
support the King and present constitution. In this 
I do most sincerely rejoice, as you will. He wishes 
to know my political opinions, and he shall most 
truly. 

CVIII. 

ANNOTATIONS OF HOMER. 

To Saimiel Rose, Esq. 

May 5, 1793. 
My dear Friend, — My delay to answer your last 
kind letter, to which likewise you desired a speedy 
reply, must have seemed rather difficult to explain 
on any other supposition than that of illness ; but 
illness has not been the cause, — although, to say the 
truth, I cannot boast of having been lately very well. 
Yet has not this been the cause of my silence, but 
your own advice — very proper, and earnestly given 
to me — to proceed in the revisal of Homer. To 
this it is owing that, instead of giving an hour or two 
before breakfast to my correspondence, I allot that 



294 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

time entirely to my studies. I have nearly given the 
last touches to the poetry, and am now busied far 
more laboriously in writing notes at the request of 
my honest bookseller, transmitted to me in the first 
instance by you, and afterwards repeated by himself. 
I am therefore deep in the old Scholia, and have 
advanced to the latter part of Iliad nine, explaining 
as I go such passages as may be difficult to unlearned 
readers, and such only ; for notes of that kind are 
the notes that Johnson desired. I find it a more 
laborious task than the translation was, and shall be 
heartily glad when it is over. In the mean time all 
the letters I have received remain unanswered, or if 
they receive an answer, it is always a short one. 
Such this must be. Johnny is here, having flown 
over London. 

Homer, I believe, will make a much more respect- 
able appearance than before. Johnson now thinks it 
will be right to make a separate impression of the 
amendments. 

I breakfast every morning on seven or eight pages 
of the Greek commentators ; for so much I am 
obliged to read in order to select perhaps three or 
four short notes for the readers of my translation. 

Homer is indeed a tie upon me that must not on 
any account be broken till all his demands are satis- 
fied ; though I have fancied while the revisal of the 
Odyssey was at a distance that it would ask less 
labor in the finishing, it is not unlikely that, when I 
take it actually in hand, I may find myself mistaken. 
Of this, at least, I am sure, that uneven verse abounds 



WILLIAM COWPER. 295 

much more in it than it once did in the Iliad ; yet 
to the latter the critics objected on that account, 
though to the former never, — perhaps because they 
had not read it. Hereafter they shall not quarrel 
with me on that score. The Iliad is now all smooth 
turnpike, and I 'will take equal care that there shall 
be no jolts in the Odyssey. 



CIX. 

INTRUSIVE STRANGERS. — LITERARY CO-OPERATION. 

To William Hayley, Esq. 

Weston, October 5, 1793. 
My good intentions towards you, my dearest 
brother, are continually frustrated, and (which is 
most provoking) not by such engagements and avo- 
cations as have a right to my attention, such as 
those to my Mary and to the old bard of Greece, but 
by mere impertinencies, — such as calls of civility 
from persons not very interesting to me, and let- 
ters from a distance still less interesting, because 
the writers of them are strangers. A man sent me 
a long copy of verses, which I could do no less than 
acknowledge. They were silly enough, and cost me 
eighteen pence, — which was seventeen pence half- 
penny farthing more than they were worth. Another 
sent me at the same time a plan, requesting my 
opinion of it, and that I would lend him my name 
as editor, — a request with which I shall not comply ; 
but I am obliged to tell him so ; and one letter is all 



296 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

that I have time to despatch in a day, sometimes 
half a one, and sometimes I am not able to write at 
all. Thus it is that my time perishes, and I can 
neither give so much of it as I would to you or to 
any other valuable purpose. 

On Tuesday we expect company, — Mr. Rose and 
Lawrence the painter. Yet once more is my patience 
to be exercised, and once more I am made to wish 
that my face had been movable, to put on and take 
off at pleasure, so as to be portable in a bandbox, 
and sent to the artist. These, however, will be gone, 
as I believe I told you, before you arrive, at which 
time I know not that anybody will be here, — ex- 
cept my Johnny, whose presence will not at all inter- 
fere with our readings. You will not, I believe, find 
me a very slashing critic ; I hardly indeed expect 
to find anything in your Life of Milton that I shall 
sentence to amputation. How should it be too 
long? A well-written work, sensible and spirited, 
such as yours was when I saw it, is never so. But, 
however, we shall see. I promise to spare nothing 
that I think may be lopped off with advantage. 

I began this letter yesterday, but could not finish 
it till now. I have risen this morning like an infer- 
nal frog out of Acheron, covered with the ooze and 
mud of melancholy. For this reason I am not sorry 
to find myself at the bottom of my paper ; for had I 
more room perhaps I might fill it all with croaking, 
and make an heart ache at Eartham * which I wish to 
be always cheerful. Adieu. My poor sympathizing 
Mary is of course sad, but always mindful of you. 
Eartham was Hayley's home at this time. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 297 

ex. 

PRINCIPLES OF TRANSLATION. 

To William Hayley, Esq. 

Weston, January 5, 1794. 
My dear Hayley, — I have waited, but waited in 
vain, for a propitious moment when I might give my 
old friend's objections 1 the consideration they de- 
serve ; I shall at last be forced to send a vague 
answer, unworthy to be sent to a person accustomed, 
like him, to close reasoning and abstruse discussion, 
for I rise after ill rest, and with a frame of mind per- 
fectly unsuited to the occasion. I sit too at the win- 
dow for light's sake, where I am so cold that my pen 
slips out of my fingers. First I will give you a trans- 
lation de novo of this untranslatable prayer. It is 
shaped as nearly as I could contrive to his Lord- 
ship's ideas ; but I have little hope that it will 
satisfy him : — 

Grant, Jove, and all ye gods, that this my son 
Be, as myself have been, illustrious here ! 
A valiant man ! and let him reign in Troy ; 
May all who witness his return from fight 
Hereafter, say, — he far excels his sire ; 
And let him bring back gory trophies, stripp'd 
From foes slain by him, to his mother's joy. 

1 Chancellor Thurlow had criticized Cowper's version of 
certain Homer lines, and both he and Hayley had submitted 
to their friend translations of their own as improvements. 



298 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

Iinlac, in " Rasselas," says (I forget to whom), 
" You have convinced me that it is impossible to be 
a poet." In like manner I might say to his Lordship, 
" You have convinced me that it is impossible to be a 
translator." To be a translator, on his terms, at least, 
is, I am sure, impossible ; on his terms I would defy 
Homer himself, were he alive, to translate the Para- 
dise Lost into Greek. Yet Milton had Homer much 
in his eye when he composed that poem ; whereas 
Homer never thought of me or my translation. 
There are minutiae in every language which trans- 
fused into another will spoil the version. Such 
extreme fidelity is in fact unfaithful ; such close 
resemblance takes away all likeness. The original 
is elegant, easy, natural ; the copy is clumsy, con- 
strained, unnatural. To what is this owing? To 
the adoption of terms not congenial to your pur- 
pose, and of a context such as no man writing an 
original work would make use of. Homer is every- 
thing that a poet should be. A translation of Homer 
so made will be everything that a translation of 
Homer should not be ; because it will be written in 
no language under heaven, — it will be English and 
it will be Greek, and therefore it will be neither. 
He is the man, whoever he be (I do not pretend to 
be that man myself), — he is the man best qualified 
as a translator of Homer who has drenched and 
steeped and soaked himself in the effusions of his 
genius till he has imbibed their color to the bone, 
and who when he is thus dyed through and through, 
distinguishing between what is essentially Greek and 
what may be habited in English, rejects the former 



WILLIAM COWPER. 299 

and is faithful to the latter as far as the purposes of 
fine poetry will permit, and no further : this, I think, 
may be easily proved. Homer is everywhere re- 
markable either for ease, dignity, or energy of ex- 
pression, for grandeur of conception, and a majestic 
flow of numbers. If we copy him so closely as to 
make every one of these excellent properties of his 
absolutely unattainable, — which will certainly be the 
effect of too close a copy, — instead of translating, 
we murder him. Therefore, after all that his Lord- 
ship has said, I still hold freedom to be an indis- 
pensable, — freedom, I mean, with respect to the 
expression ; freedom so limited as never to leave 
behind the matter, but at the same time indulged 
with a sufficient scope to secure the spirit, and as 
much as possible of the manner. I say as much as 
possible, because an English manner must differ 
from a Greek one in order to be graceful ; and for 
this there is no remedy. Can an ungraceful, awk- 
ward translation of Homer be a good one? No. 
But a graceful, easy, natural, faithful version of him, 
will not that be a good one ? Yes. Allow me but 
this, and I insist upon it that such a one may be pro- 
duced on my principles, and can be produced on 
no other. 

I have not had time to criticise his Lordship's 
other version. You know how little time I have for 
anything, and can tell him so. 

Adieu, my dear brother. I have now tired both 
you and myself, and, with the love of the whole trio, 
remain, 

Yours ever. 



300 THE BEST LETTERS OF 

Reading his Lordship's sentiments over again, I 
am inclined to think that in all I have said, I have 
only given him back the same in other terms. He 
disallows both the absolute free and the absolute 
close ; so do I, and, if I understand myself, have said 
so in my Preface. He wishes to recommend a me- 
dium, though he will not call it so ; so do I, — only 
we express it differently. What is it, then, we dispute 
about? My head is not good enough to-day to 
discover. 1 



CXI. 

STANZAS TO MRS. UN WIN. 

To Mary.' 1 

The twentieth year is wellnigh past, 
Since first our sky was overcast ; 
Ah, would that this might be the last ! 

My Mary ! 

1 Although Cowper's life was prolonged more than six 
years after this date, this is the last of his letters free from 
traces of a disordered mind. The combined influences of 
Mrs. Unwin's decline, her death in 1796, and his own morbid 
thoughts, gave to his correspondence a tone so abnormal, so 
steeped in the gloomy and unnatural fancies of the melan- 
cholia that terminated only with his death, that these later 
letters can be given no place in a collection designed to 
represent Cowper at his best. 

2 The exact date of the composition of these lines is not 
known ; Hayley believed it to be the last original piece which 
Cowper produced while living at Weston, and questions 
" whether any, language on earth can exhibit a specimen of 
verse more exquisitely tender." 



WILLIAM COWPER. 30 1 

Thy spirits have a fainter flow, 
I see thee daily weaker grow ; 
'T was my distress that brought thee low, 

My Mary ! 

Thy needles, once a shining store, 
For my sake restless heretofore, 
Now rust disused, and shine no more, 

My Mary ! 

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil 
The same kind office for me still, 
Thy sight now seconds not thy will, 

My Mary ! 

But well thou play'dst the housewife's part ; 
And all thy threads, with magic art, 
Have wound themselves about this heart, 

My Mary ! 

Thy indistinct expressions seem 

Like language utter'd in a dream ; 

Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, 

My Mary ! 

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, 
Are still more lovely in my sight 
Than golden beams of orient light, 

My Mary ! 

For could I view nor them nor thee, 
What sight worth seeing could I see ? 
The sun would rise in vain for me, 

My Mary ! 

Partakers of thy sad decline, 

Thy hands their little force resign; 

Yet gently prest, press gently mine, 

My Mary ! 



302 THE BEST LETTERS OF COWPER. 

Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st, 
That now at evei-y step thou mov'st 
Upheld by two ; — yet still thou lov'st, 

My Mary ! 

And still to love, though prest with ill, 
In wintry age to feel no chill, 
With me is to be lovely still, 

My Mary ! 

But ah ! by constant heed I know 
How oft the sadness that I show 
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, 

My Mary ! 

And should my future lot be cast 
With much resemblance of the past, 
Thy worn-out heart will break at last, 

My Mary ! 



THE END. 



y^^hu 



